Fantasies Make for Tidy Relationships
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: After a painful breakup with an abusive boyfriend, Blaine can't quite get back in the groove of things. As far as relationships go, no. Too messy. Even though the handsome owner of the coffee shop he goes to every morning seems to have a thing for him. So he hops online in search of something a toy that will take his old routine of self-pleasure from boring to soaring. Klaine.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Blaine has his life set up just the way he wants...well, no, not really. After a painful breakup with a manipulative, abusive boyfriend, Blaine can't quite get back in the groove of things - anything. He spends more time teaching than following his dream of striking out and having a career in music, and as far as relationships go, no. Too messy. Too complicated. Too much of a chance of getting hurt. Even though the handsome, witty, charismatic owner of the coffee shop he goes to every morning, Kurt Hummel, really seems to have a thing for him. And Blaine can see him having a thing for Kurt, too...but no. Still too messy. Still too complicated. No matter how flirty things get between them. But Blaine needs something. All his old methods of stress relief are just that - old. So he hops online in search of something new, a toy that will take his old routine of self-pleasure from boring to soaring. And if he happens to start fantasizing about his beautiful barista, what could it hurt?**

 **This is the story of how Blaine Anderson realizes he's having the relationship he's always wanted with a machine instead of with the man of his dreams.**

 **Written for the Blaine Anderson Big Bang, with wonderful artwork by frumiousme on tumblr.**

 **Warning for angst, mention of a past abusive relationship, masturbation, sexual fantasy, fuck machine, and emotional/hurt comfort.**

"Two non-fat caramel mochas and a hot chocolate with non-fat whip…"

 _Step_.

"One flat white and a shot of espresso…"

 _Step_.

"One decaf black and an almond biscotti…"

 _Step_.

"One double decaf and a hazelnut steamed milk…"

 _Step_.

Standing in line, waiting to buy his morning cup of coffee, Blaine pretends to read over his notes for the musical theater master class he's teaching in a little over an hour.

"A chocolate chip mocha soy latte with non-fat, non-dairy whip, and a sprinkle of nutmeg. Whoo! That's a new one…"

 _Step_.

Blaine can't help smiling as he advances in the line, directed to the counter by the man slinging drinks, calling out orders as he fills them, often times with quirky comments or compliments for his customers.

"One chai green tea, and a bagel with smoked Gouda and tomato spread. Where _did_ you get that scarf? It is absolutely adorable…"

 _Step_.

It's that voice – silvery, unique, and simply steeped with joy, a genuine lust for life - that first drew Blaine in here over six months ago, when he got lost on his way to a last minute optometrist's appointment (the first one he'd had in years) with a brand new doctor in his provider network, and ended up in the doorway of _The Hot Shot_ , looking for directions to the subway. The place was just as busy back then as it is now. Somehow, this quaint neighborhood coffee shop managed to win over customers from the competition of five Starbucks in the area, and Blaine's sure it's partially because of its handsome and charismatic owner, Kurt Hummel, who also doubles as the morning barista.

Except that on that first morning Blaine dropped in, the man in question was singing Broadway karaoke, the song _Rose's Turn,_ with one of his employees. He really knew how to sell it, too – so much so that Blaine became curious if Kurt had some musical theater in his background. (To date, Blaine hasn't gotten around to asking.) Kurt even persuaded the barista he was singing with to do a Rockettes style kick line towards the very end. Apparently, Kurt had lost a game of Celebrity Trivia that the employees had been playing with the customers, a game they played with _Truth or Dare_ -type stakes. From what Blaine had heard later on, Kurt losing didn't happen very often. Several employees suspected that Kurt had actually thrown the game so that his shyest employee, who has also lost, would not have to suffer alone.

Whatever the circumstances, Blaine was definitely happy that Kurt wound up performing on the one day he ended up lost and wandering by.

"Three mocha lattes and…uh…a _spicy_ flat white..."

 _Step_.

Blaine's cheeks start to pink when the tone in Kurt's voice changes, a stutter entering the flow of his words, and Blaine knows that Kurt's spotted him in line.

Blaine pulls out a pen and starts making bullshit notes, wanting to look busy, needing to look unaffected, but most importantly, look like he's not fawning silently over the man filling coffee orders.

Which Blaine absolutely is.

"A black tea with cream and a banana nut muffin. Huzzah! You got our last one! May fortune shine its light upon you…"

 _Step_.

Blaine looks up when he sees the lip of the counter appear over the page he hasn't been reading, eyes plowing through a blur of words that bleed into nonsense, and meeting up with a warm, smiling face.

"A medium drip for you, Blaine," Kurt says, sliding Blaine his cup.

"You know, I can't believe that with all the people you see every day, you've got _my_ order memorized," Blaine says, juggling his pen, his books, and his notes to find his money. He makes it a point not to be ready when he gets to the counter. It gives him an excuse to talk to Kurt – just a few extra minutes to spend.

"Yeah, well, I only memorize the orders of my _cute_ regulars."

"And how many of those do you have?" Blaine asks, sliding his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans.

"Currently, just one," Kurt says, blue eyes sparkling above his flirty smile.

"Hey!" an elderly woman with lavender hair, standing behind Blaine in line, gripes. She folds her arms crossly over her chest, the sleeves of her cherry-print raincoat complaining almost as loudly as she did, and Blaine snickers.

"Sorry, Mrs. Filch, but you fall under the category of _adorable_." Kurt laughs, and the woman gives him a wink. "I'll have your caramel macchiato up in a second."

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Filch says, appropriately appeased.

"So, I'm cute, but not adorable?" Blaine teases.

"Well, you know, you have to work your way up," Kurt says. "I mean, look at Mrs. Filch." Kurt motions to the woman, beaming at all the attention. "Now, you have to admit, she's pretty hard to compete with right there."

"And how do I?" Blaine asks. "Compete, I mean."

"Uh..." Kurt chuckles nervously, getting Blaine his change before Blaine even hands him his money – change for a five, which is what Blaine always gives him. Blaine makes it a point to pay with cash since it takes just that little bit longer to ring up.

Again, more time to spend with Kurt.

"I don't know," Kurt says. "Maybe one day you'll break down and take me up on my offer for dinner."

Blaine trades his five dollar bill for Kurt's change, their fingertips brushing slightly over the exchange.

"Maybe I will," Blaine says with a coy half-smile.

Blaine's been saying the same thing for the past five months, two weeks, and three days. And as much as Kurt hopes every day that Blaine will say yes, he's not holding his breath.

As Blaine pockets his change and heads out of _The Hot Shot_ with his coffee, Kurt's voice following him out, _"Yes, Mrs. Filch, he does seem like a very nice man…and handsome…"_ Blaine wishes he could say _yes_.

* * *

At first, going to _The Hot Shot_ to see Kurt was an indulgence.

Conceivably, Blaine could hit the Starbucks right down the street from his apartment, or the seven he passes on his way to NYADA, but it's nice to see Kurt every morning, to hear his voice, to talk to him.

It's the best part of Blaine's day.

It smooths out the torn, jagged edges of dealing with self-important students and conceited, holier-than-thou _I used to play Hamlet of Broadway_ type teachers.

Blaine and Kurt had moved on from the casual conversation stage to the more flirtatious stage, with Kurt dropping hints now and then about movies playing that he heard were interesting, or musicals he wanted to go see that he just so happened to have an extra ticket to. Blaine had always been naïve when it came to flirting, but he caught on to Kurt fairly quick.

Blaine had been on a dating hiatus after his last long term relationship ended due to _irreconcilable differences_ , which was Blaine's brief, vague way of saying that his ex-boyfriend manipulated him, emotionally abused him, cheated on him, and then, when Blaine broke up with him, stalked him and threatened him. Blaine took out a restraining order, and his ex retaliated by breaking into Blaine's apartment and pushing him down a flight of stairs.

But that was over two years ago.

Blaine could maybe consider starting a relationship with Kurt, who was handsome, intelligent, kind to everyone he met, patient to a fault, and seemed to be really into him. But relationships are messy, and Blaine had had too much messy in life in general.

Messy nearly derailed his career, which was part of the reason why he spent more time teaching than performing. Why he hadn't been in the studio to try his hand at cutting a first album in more than a year.

No. Blaine wanted neat, convenient, and, on those nights when he _really_ needed something more than the memory of witty banter and flirty winks, _battery operated_.

Blaine wasn't adverse to using toys in place of a warm body and actual human contact. He sure as hell had enough of them. But recently, he was getting tired of the same old, same old – vibrators, plugs, beads, wands, fleshjacks. They had stopped giving him what he needed a while ago, become a means to an end. Blaine needed to be filled and fulfilled, in a way that kept his hands free to roam and caress. He had vibrating eggs with wireless remote controls, but that didn't even come close to what he wanted. He didn't want vibration, he wanted thrust. And he didn't want control; he wanted to hand control over to someone else – a difficult thing to do when you're alone. But there had to be something, some solution to his problem. This was the digital age, after all. If they can invent a sex toy someone can use with their significant other long distance, then science should be able to come up with something that would…well…that would fuck him, right?

Insanely curious, Blaine starts Googling sex toys during his commute to NYADA, sitting in the far corner by the wall, sipping his coffee, and keeping his phone screen tilted away from the windows so no one else will see. Blaine's actually surprised how fast he finds what he's looking for. Why he didn't think to do a search for this a while ago is beyond him. But the minute he sees it, he knows it's what he wants, and before he even leaves the subway train, he's already ordered his new toy.

By the time he's done with his masters class, he already has a tracking number and a shipping confirmation waiting in his email.

In the morning, Blaine practically skips to _The Hot Shot_ for his medium drip.

"Well, don't you look chipper today? Any exciting new developments in your life since I last saw you twenty-four hours ago?" Kurt asks, his teasing tone not as light, his smile pulling at the corners a hair.

"Yes," Blaine says with a laugh to himself. He notices Kurt's normally effervescent smile go a little flat, and he jumps in to revive it. "Uh, I bought myself a present…uh…something I've wanted for a while, and I'm just excited. It should be arriving soon. Today, possibly."

It doesn't hit Blaine until the words leave his mouth the dangers of revealing that information. But they're just sharing idle chitchat while he buys his coffee. What are the odds Kurt's going to ask?

"Ooo, really?" Kurt says, his relief subtly obvious. "A present? That sounds like fun."

"It…uh…should be," Blaine says with a heavy swallow, his throat constricting at the thought of said toy, and how much he's _dying_ to play with it.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Kurt says. "What is it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh" – Blaine's eyes widen with a low-level panic. He didn't consciously plan on mentioning his acquisition to anyone, so he hadn't prepared a cover story on the off chance anyone pressed him for details, and for as good an actor as he is on stage, he's a terrible liar – "it's just…uh…a kinda…electronic gadget…to play with at home. You know…" Blaine clears his throat – "for when I get bored."

"Groovy," Kurt says, as if Blaine's ambiguous explanation actually told him anything. "I'm afraid I'm not all that _plugged in_." Kurt slides Blaine his coffee cup. "I'm a simple guy. Still get my _Vogue_ and _OUT_ delivered to my apartment. I have a Kindle, but I barely use it. I just enjoy holding the magazine in my hands, you know? Feeling the paper between my fingers, smelling all the perfume samples."

"Well, nothing beats cracking the spine of a brand new magazine," Blaine agrees, fishing for his wallet. "I still prefer to do it that way. And you're right. They don't include the perfume samples with the online subscription. It's criminal."

Kurt laughs at Blaine's joke, grabbing his change out of the register.

"Don't get me wrong," Kurt says. "I'm not living in the Dark Ages. I've got my cell phone and my computer."

"Does it have a giant key in the back you have to wind?" Blaine jokes. "Or does it run on hamster power."

"Hamsters," Kurt says with a bobbing nod. "But, I'm on Facebook and Twitter, I have email. I…uh…even put the address on my website."

Blaine's eyes flick up from his wallet, hand pulling the five from his billfold. "You have a website?"

"Yeah. It's kinda new," Kurt admits, eyes drifting down to the counter, his finger worrying a spot on the concrete countertop. "You know, in case customers want to contact me about concerns, ideas, things they want to see on the menu, compliments, questions, color schemes" – Kurt shrugs – "that sort of thing."

"I think that's very smart of you as a business owner," Blaine says, pocketing his change and picking up his coffee, "availing yourself to your customers that way."

"That's what I'm hoping," Kurt says, giving Blaine a parting wink.

* * *

Thanks to the wonders of expedited shipping, Blaine's purchase – packaged discretely in two plain, brown, rectangular cardboard boxes, with no identifying names or marks whatsoever - are waiting for him outside the door to his apartment by the time he gets home in the evening.

It's called _The Fuck Machine_ – about as crude a name as anyone could come up with, but also as to the point as one can get. Blaine saw it on the Fort Troff website, and his eyes immediately lit up. So did his cheeks because _damn_! The adult actor demonstrating the machine in the tiny clip the site provided was all kinds of smokin' hot (Blaine had a thing for the football player/muscle-y jock type). The actor seemed to be enjoying himself, even though the online summary used words that Blaine didn't want to associate with a masturbation aid, like torque and poundage. He was both terrified and completely turned on. But that four-and-a-half minute video (which Blaine watched eight times on the train to and from NYADA, and then an additional twelve times at home, long after he'd made his purchase) were all the testimonial Blaine needed. And a steal at just $329. So why not? Next to his Prius, this machine could very well turn out to be the best investment he's ever made. He didn't know how in the world he got so lucky.

A ridiculous paranoia that his neighbors not only know what's in the boxes, but are also watching him through their peep holes, causes him to fumble with his keys. He picks up the boxes as casually as possible, trembling with nerves and anticipation. He turns his key in the lock, clumsily pushes open the door, and trips over his threshold. He recovers before he falls, and squirrels the boxes inside, then he locks and bolts the door behind him. He puts the boxes on the kitchen table, and without taking off his coat or dropping his messenger bag, he grabs a pair of scissors from the counter and slices through the brown packing tape on the larger of the two. He pulls open the flaps and sees a mass of Styrofoam, filling the box completely. This time, he has to put down his bag. He sets the box down on the floor, slides his fingers between the box and the Styrofoam, and slowly pulls it out. It doesn't come out easily, slipping out in stages, a few inches at a time, but by the time it springs free, Blaine is absolutely panting to try out his new toy.

Blaine hatches the machine from its carefully packaged cocoon. As advertised, it only weighs five pounds – basically a miniature motor in a hard, plastic casing. It comes with a packing slip, but no real instructions. Blaine looks over the box twice, turning it upside down and shaking it, but nope. Nothing in there. That doesn't really matter. The website made it look simple to operate.

Of course, it also looks like something a mechanic would use to jack up a car, or that a contractor might buy to drill a hole in drywall.

Along with the device itself, Blaine spent an additional small fortune on dildos for the machine (which were sold separately), hence the second box. An enthusiastic (and horny) Blaine bought almost every dildo imaginable – several realistic versions in varying sizes, from something resembling his own size, all the way up to one that looks like it might end up reaching the fillings in his molars from the inside. There were also an interesting variety of sci-fi themed dildos, some perfectly smooth, some curved, some with odd bumps and ridges manufactured into their design, so intriguing that Blaine felt it was worth the money to try them out.

To top it all off, he bought a humongous jug of something the site recommended called _Cum Lube_.

The name, like _Fuck Machine_ , pretty much speaks for itself.

Blaine opens the second box and unpacks dildo after dildo until he finds the one he wants. He attaches the average _him_ sized dildo to the machine, then steps back to take a look. He frowns. Overall, it looks like an amateur knock-off of a Jonathan Payne sculpture. It might be uncomfortable. Or _painful_. But it has a remote control, and numerous settings. The website said that the controls weren't overly sensitive, so, no fear of sneezing and accidentally launching his naked ass into the stratosphere.

There's only one thing left to do, and that's take it into his bedroom and give it a trial run.

Blaine picks it up - adjusting the angle on the piston arm since he had it pointing straight up with the dildo smacking him in the face - plus the industrial size bottle of _Cum Lube_ , and carries them into his room. He sets it down on a clear patch of floor, in front of his full length mirror so he can get a good view of the action. He undresses, yanking at buttons and zippers in his haste to have them open, almost popping a few off in the process. He opens his bottle of lube and pours out a handful – a handful that glops out before Blaine can pull the bottle upright and covers his entire hand, with some to spare.

The _Cum Lube_ is white, it's thick…it lives up to its name.

Blaine slicks up the dildo, then himself for the heck of it, the proximity of his fingers to his hole enticing him to finger himself first, scissor himself open, help him relax and get himself ready for his machine. He didn't realize how tense he was, how anxious, until he sticks a second finger in and it burns. Or maybe it's because it's been a while. He sort of put off playing with himself when he doubled up on his class load. Either way, it takes him longer than he anticipates to open himself up enough to feel comfortable giving the machine a go.

The mechanics of getting the machine up and running, then maneuvering himself onto it, prove tricky – kind of the way sex goes in real life. Getting in to position becomes an interesting feat, and he giggles more than once at the awkward squat he ends up opting for to make the whole thing work. Needless to say, it's going to take quite a bit of practice to get to the point where he can get on his hands and knees and slip onto the thing the way the actors in the online ad do.

Negotiating this machine _does_ remind him of his first time, not his most stellar sexual experience, but good for what it was – two woefully inexperienced teenaged boys, on the cusp of graduating high school, the only out homosexual boys in their class, desperate not to leave their small Ohio hometown as virgins. They made one of those cliché pacts at the beginning of their senior year that if neither one of them could get laid on their own before graduation, they would lose their respective virginities to one another.

They didn't love each other, but they were really good friends and confidantes. They understood each other's struggles more than anyone. The sex was messy. There were a lot of embarrassing mishaps. Blaine didn't know how to kiss, using too much saliva and teeth; one of them farted; and they fell over twice; but all in all, it was fun, and as far as Blaine was concerned, that was the most important thing he could take away from the entire escapade.

Blaine feels his legs shake with strain before he even gets the machine turned on, and just knows he's in for a cramp before he gets the chance to cum. He adjusts the angle again to try and remedy that, gives it a few experimental bucks back, and then turns the remote control setting to a few notches above low.

Once he's got it started, it's a whole different world entirely. He imagined himself like the actor on the video – stroking himself, moaning, writhing with pleasure. But when the arm starts thrusting, moving the dildo in and out, in and out, he doesn't want to move. He just wants to kneel still and let the machine overwhelm him, let it fill him with sensation.

He wants to use it, and let it use him.

He takes a peek in the mirror, watches his own eyes glaze over as he stares at his face, jaw slackened unintentionally, his entire face relaxing, the rhythmic _thrust-thrust-thrust_ of the machine putting him in a daze.

It's not human contact, the lube covered dildo shunting in and out of his ass, especially without the inclusion of arms around him, kisses on his skin, words inside his ear, a hand pulling his hair. Blaine is a notorious cuddle whore. He loves to be held, before, during, and after. But this machine, with its motor that's guaranteed for a year's worth of fucking, is the next best thing.

And the machine does its job, everything the online ad promises. Blaine's eyes roll when he feels his orgasm bubbling in his stomach, coiling tight, arching his back and curling his toes. He lets his eyelids drift closed so he can absorb it all, let it ripple through him, and maybe, just maybe, since the machine doesn't need to rest in between, Blaine can hold out for another, lower the dial so he can take a breather, then jump it up a few notches to see how much he can take – something he's always craved trying, but that no top he's ever known has been willing to do for him.

Blaine doesn't know why it happens, why the face pops into Blaine's head, but suddenly, amidst his shoulders dropping, his head falling to his arms to increase the intensity of the pulsations inside him, a vision of Kurt flashes behind his eyelids, standing at his counter, making Blaine's coffee, smiling that welcoming smile of his, and that does it.

"Oh, _G-god_!" Blaine moans, coming so quick and so hard, his stomach actually hurts.

He stays kneeling on the floor, limp like a ragdoll, letting the machine work him through his orgasm until the pounding in his ass goes from cathartic to maddening. With a shaking hand, he switches the machine off. He'll try for endurance another time. For now, he's had enough.

Blaine moves away from his machine, not crawling across the floor, just falling further forward, letting momentum pull him off the dildo and into a lying position on the ground.

"God." Blaine looks at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't move an inch other than to switch the speed on the remote, a simple roll of his thumb against the dial, but he looks wrecked. He feels his heart _pound-pound-pound_ in his chest, nearly lifting his torso off the floor with every beat. Blaine tries to rise to his hands and knees again, but his arms and legs wobble, then give out, and he ends up back on the floor, landing with a _thud_ and lightheaded giggle. "Oh, man. That was…wow," Blaine mumbles, only distantly aware that he's talking to himself. "Definitely the best money I've ever spent…well, except for about two hundred medium drips."

Blaine lies on the floor, alternating between testing his arms and legs and murmuring to himself, until he can finally make himself kneel, and then make himself stand. He cleans up, wiping down the dildo, cleaning up the aptly named lube, which, though it perfectly mimics the real thing, grosses Blaine out. He hops into a hot shower to reflect on that new, amazing, and somewhat bizarre experience. He can't say he didn't enjoy it, because he did. Hell yeah, he did. As soon as he can, he's going to get back on that website and leave an anonymous five-star review. But still, using it is something that he's going to have to practice.

Being intimate with something _that_ realistic without the comfort of an actual live human being on the other end is something he'll need to get used to.

He's also going to have to come to terms with the last minute inclusion of Kurt's face into his fantasy, but he sets that aside for now, pins it in his mind for later. On his way to bed, he bends over and gives his new machine a pat.

Here he has it, the thing he'd been hoping for. No muss, no fuss, no complications, no angst, and no heartbreak.

It looks like the start of a new, beautiful relationship.


	2. Chapter 2

It's more than a little difficult to look Kurt in the eyes the next morning, especially since, on top of harboring the taboo memory of Kurt's smiling face weaving in at a critical point during Blaine's earth-shaking, mind-bending, toe-curling orgasm, he's also trying to hide a rather pronounced limp. If it was only his ass that was bothering him, he'd be able to mask it better. Years of dancing, fencing, and boxing taught him how to handle sore glutes long before he ever discovered his kink for rough sex. But everything from his shoulders to his hips to his ass, his thighs and his knees, even his wrists and his ankles, are stiff as a frickin' board, his muscles apparently deciding at this inopportune time to prove what happens when you give up twice weekly racquetball league and forgo the morning jog.

Before Blaine left his apartment, he tried Tylenol, Advil, Icy Hot, a gel pack, a hot shower, a scalding hot shower, then a cold one, but nothing he did would loosen up the muscles, or make the soreness any better. He considered not going to _The Hot Shot_ this morning, but while riding the subway - standing up and holding a pole since sitting on the hard seat, being jarred left and right with the movement of the speeding train, was killing him – thinking about blowing by Kurt's stop and heading straight for NYADA, Blaine realized that he'd rather tell Kurt straight to his face that he spent last night being fucked in the ass by a machine he bought online than to miss one day seeing him.

Blaine gets a decent head start when he leaves his apartment, the various and numerous treatments he experimented with making him limber enough to walk to the subway with relative ease. Climbing the steps from the underground platform and walking to the coffee shop, however, becomes agonizing. Getting there and seeing the line of customers reaching the door (bending to the right so the employees don't have to prop it open and let in the cold) is almost enough to make Blaine burst into rather unmanly tears.

Mrs. Filch sees him approach on her way out, and holds the door open for him, waiting patiently as he shuffles in.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asks, eying Blaine curiously as he hobbles left-right, left-right, left-right, like a penguin,

"I am," he says, forcing a smile. "Thank you for asking."

She takes a hold of his coat sleeve and stops him before he gets on line. She looks both ways, then leans in when she's convinced herself no one's listening.

"If it's the hemorrhoids, make sure you get your hands on plenty of bran," she says. "My cousin" – she lowers her voice – "he's a gay, and he tells me you boys get those a lot."

"Oh," Blaine says in surprise. "Okay…"

"And make sure you get one of those donut-shaped pillows. They sell them down at the drugstore, down at Duane Reade's. It will save…your…life." She says it with a determined face and hand gestures to match, and Blaine, already redder in the face than a scarlet macaw, knowing he's going to have to see Kurt and talk to him, nods aghast, with nothing more intelligent he can think of to say than, "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

She nods, a satisfied grin lifting her thin, pink lips. She pats him kindly on the shoulder and heads down the street, leaving a thunderstruck Blaine to fall in line and join the queue.

Step by step, Blaine inches forward, wishing to God that it was socially acceptable for him to lie down on his stomach while waiting in a public place. Didn't Kurt mention that he put his email address up on his website so customers could send him suggestions?

Cots. Or hammocks. Either one will work for Blaine.

"Two soy lattes and a chocolate chip croissant…"

 _Shuffle step_ …ugh.

"A double decaf triple hot with a twist of lime… _really_? You come into my house and order _that_?"

 _Shuffle step_ …ugh.

"A steamed milk with a pump of caramel, a non-fat mocha, and a bacon, egg, and cheese Panini…and okay, where did you get that sweater? Rue-La-La? And it's reclaimed, right? I thought so! I…thought…so! That is so _in_ right now…"

 _Shuffle step_ …uuugggghhhh.

"Hey, Blaine," Kurt chirps when Blaine makes his way to the counter, wincing with every shuffle step, and dragging his right foot as if it's asleep. "Here's your medium…oh, hey, are you okay?" Kurt tilts his head, examining Blaine's face from a safe distance. "Are you running a fever? You look a little…flushed."

"Uh, do I?" Blaine asks, pulling up the collar of his coat and hiding his burning cheeks behind it.

"God, yes. And…I think…are you limping?" Kurt asks, sounding concerned. "Oh, don't tell me you're catching that flu that's been going around. I bet you're aching all over." Blaine sputters a cough at Kurt's astute assessment, ducking deeper into his collar so his cheeks don't burst into flames. Kurt leans over the counter to peer into Blaine's eyes, every-shifting, terrified they'll lock on to Kurt's and he'll somehow divine the truth. It's got to be in there somewhere, windows to the soul and all that. Blaine's mother always said that he has extremely expressive eyes, and that any amateur con artist would be able to mark him in a second. Yes, it has to be there, somewhere in the freckles on the left of his iris – _last night, I was masturbating, and your face popped into my head_. "Yup," Kurt announces, and Blaine catches his breath, "your eyes _do_ look a bit blood shot."

"Oh," Blaine says, starting to relax. He takes a good look at Kurt's eyes, a better look than he's ever gotten, and finds himself staring into the most mesmerizing blue-grey eyes he's ever seen. Blaine's seen his fair share of blue eyes, but he doesn't remember seeing another human being with eyes like Kurt's. And they're natural, not contacts. Blaine hangs all day with actors and performers; he can definitely tell the difference. "I…I guess I…hadn't…noticed…"

"You shouldn't be out in this cold," Kurt scolds. "You should be home in bed."

Blaine gulps.

 _Home. In bed. Kurt thinks he should be home…in bed._

Kurt smirks, straightening up slowly. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Huh?" Blaine nods his head, blinking his thoughts of being home…in bed…possibly with Kurt…away. "Uh…yeah," he says, "it's…I guess I just never realized how beautiful your eyes are."

"Wha-oh," Kurt says, bashfully averting his eyes, pouring Blaine's coffee as an excuse to keep them that way. "I…thank you."

"You're welcome," Blaine says, watching Kurt's smile bloom, burn slow on his face.

That smile.

It triggers a flood of images, tactile memories - Kurt behind his counter, smiling at Blaine, while Blaine is being pounded from behind, back arching, eyes shut, loving every minute of it. Blaine's hands begin to shake, his cock twitching in his pants, his sore ass clenching around something that's not there.

He either has to erase that image from his head fast, or go bolting from _The Hot Shot_ , and Blaine's not sure he can run in the condition he's in.

"So there's…uh, a flu going around?" Blaine asks, handing Kurt a fiver, trying to start a conversation that might take his mind off of last night.

"Oh, yeah," Kurt says. "About three of my employees are out with it, and we just sent another guy home half an hour ago."

"Well, that's…that's awful," Blaine says.

"Don't I know it?" Kurt agrees, passing Blaine his change.

"I wish I could lend you a hand," Blaine says. "Pour coffee…or something."

"Oh, God no," Kurt laughs, putting a hand over his mouth and backing away.

"What?" Blaine asks, confused. "Why?"

"Because the last thing I need is to get sick right now."

"Really? Why? Wh-what do you have going on?" Blaine feels his stomach cramp, like someone's sucker punched him to the gut, when he sees the dreamy cloud settle over Kurt's eyes. Blaine realizes he's being immature and unfair, considering the fact that every time Kurt asks Blaine out, he turns him down. Kurt's an awesome guy. He deserves to find love, but Blaine can't help himself. He selfishly sees Kurt as his, always has, even though _he_ was the one adamant that he wasn't ready to date.

Had Kurt found a partner a month ago, Blaine might have let him go, slunk off to the sidelines and licked his wounds.

But after last night...

Kurt turns his blue-grey eyes on Blaine and winks. "Well, if I'm sick, I won't get to see your gorgeous face every morning, will I?"

* * *

Blaine isn't too sure about bringing his machine into the shower, but he couldn't take his mind off the idea either. He wants to give his _Fuck Machine_ a go while standing up, change the angle, put him in a position that forces him to fight for balance. Standing happens to be one of Blaine's favorite sexual positions. It makes him feel a bit submissive, which is one of Blaine's guilty pleasures. He and his ex were huge shower sex enthusiasts. If Blaine had had to pay for water, the bill would have been insane.

 _Fuck!_ Blaine thinks. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Damn that that slipped in his head. He didn't want to think about that asshole during this. If his face pops up into Blaine's mind while he's using his machine, he'll never be able to use it again, and that…that would be a sin.

The period of mourning would be extensive.

Blaine snickers ironically at himself. One fuck and he's already hooked. That sounds like him. Thank God his toy isn't a man. That would not be a healthy basis for a relationship.

The fleeting thought of his ex nearly makes Blaine consider putting off using his machine for the night, but as he stands in the bathroom, his cock rapidly hardening in his jeans, thinking about the night before, thinking about standing with this machine pounding into him, how amazing it's going to feel, he decides to risk it.

The damn thing is just too fucking good to resist.

The base of the machine has four _huge_ suction cups, about the size of Blaine's palm, made to stick on to any slick surface. Still, he feels like he's putting far too much faith in the principles of atmospheric pressure by hanging a five pound motor off the wall, thrusting at a rate of two-hundred times per minute, and expecting it to stay put. The website _specifically_ mentioned using it in the shower, but Blaine is wary. What if he switches the machine to high and it falls off in the middle? He has no doubts the machine would come out okay. Fort Troff says they spent numerous hours slamming the thing to the floor to make sure it can survive whatever torture he decides to inflict on it. But the damage that the machine might do to his ass…that picture in Blaine's head is not a pretty one. He values his ability to sit on flat surfaces without the use of a hernia pillow, and to shit through only one hole. He'd like to keep things that way.

Blaine watches the video again (for instructional purposes), making extra certain he's got it right, and then decides to take the plunge. He follows the online directions for adhering the machine to the shower wall and sticks it on. It attaches fairly quick, with a comical _splurch_. He tugs on it hard, but it doesn't budge, doesn't slip an inch, which he finds reassuring. He figures he has to have a little faith. This is what he bought this machine for, to fulfill his every fantasy.

Time to start fulfilling.

Blaine chooses a larger of the realistic dildos this time, and attaches it to the machine. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and starts to undress. He doesn't rush through it like he did the night before, tearing his clothes from his body. He gives himself the freedom to imagine that there's a lover there with him, that the hands on his body belong to someone else - a faceless stranger, a random nobody, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling down his slacks, feeling under his t-shirt, fingertips lightly stroking his abs, caressing his chest. With much better control on the bottle, he pours a dollop of lube on his hands and starts to stroke his cock, already hard, a throbbing symbol of his desperation to be used again

Blaine gets so caught up in the moment, with this fantasy of nobody in particular playing in his head, tweaking his nipples and stroking his cock, fingering his hole that sucks around his finger, eager to be filled, that he actually lets out a gasp.

When he steps into the shower, he doesn't turn on the water, because _electrocution_ , and the last thing he needs is to have that immortalized in his obituary – _Blaine Devon Anderson, age 29, Associate Professor at NYADA and boxing enthusiast, electrocuted while masturbating in the shower using a Fort Troff Fuck Machine. In lieu of flowers, send money to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, so they can leave the country and hide in shame._

God, if Blaine dies that way and Kurt finds out, it won't matter that Blaine is dead, just as long as he doesn't come back.

Blaine sets the dial to two above low, like before, but when that doesn't seem like enough, even to start, he brings it up a notch more.

He lets the machine work its magic. It sets a pace and he melts into it, more mobile this time, touching himself, stroking, kissing whatever skin he can reach on his arms, his hands, his shoulders. He stands up straight, and then leans over, running his fingers through his hair and tugging at his curls.

Blaine lets his fantasy take on a life of its own, his brain leading it without him giving it any conscious direction. When his fantasy man finally emerges from the shadows to make love to him, it's Kurt's voice Blaine hears.

 _"Hello, gorgeous."_

Those two words thread their way into Blaine's psyche, mix with the touch of fingers, blend with the brush of lips, and Blaine throws his head back and moans.

That voice of Kurt's, that heavenly voice, always finding a way to lure him to it.

Blaine closes his eyes. He feels arms wrap around his chest and hold him tight. In a dark corner of his mind, Blaine knows it's all a fantasy, but it's a good one.

He doesn't have anything else, so this will do for now.

After all, he has no intention of Kurt finding out, so he's not harming anyone.

Blaine bends slightly, moves with the machine, teases himself by letting it get too close to the right spot, then dance away.

 _"God, yes,"_ the voice in his head moans. Blaine can almost feel Kurt's breath tickling his skin. " _Push back for me, baby…just…just like that…oh, Blaine…gorgeous Blaine…oh God, oh God…oh God…"_

The feel of skin against Blaine's skin, even though it's his own, drives the fantasy along, takes it to another level. Blaine's body becomes restless, pinned to this machine with its ruthless, constant pounding in and out, in and out. Blaine flicks the switch, raising the speed until it's almost too much to take. He rolls his head on his neck, mindless mumbles spilling from his trembling lips.

"Yes…oh God, yes…yes…harder…faster…" His thumb flicks the dial on the control, upping the speed, the thrust. He maneuvers on his toes to match it, meet it, find that spot that will make his mind shut down and slip away. He lets Kurt's face, his eyes, float to the forefront of his dream, no longer a faceless, random nobody. That beautiful voice that's carrying him into oblivion belongs to Kurt.

Blaine wants to see _Kurt_.

And without even planning on doing it, without realizing it's happening, Kurt's name slips past his lips.

"Kurt…oh…oh, God…Kurt…yes, Kurt…"

Saying Kurt's name out loud, hearing it ring in the air around him, brings the orgasm building in Blaine's body to life. His arms wrap tighter around his chest, shivering against his skin, keeping him together while everything else splinter apart.

It's an illusion – a carefully crafted illusion that seems so real. And this one, with his hands touching him, Kurt's eyes to focus on, and his voice, that incredible voice…tonight was even better than last night.

"Oh…oh, God…oh God…" Blaine shakes his head. He can't seem to remember how to say anything else.

Well, he knows how to say one other thing, but with his cock spilling hot over his own feet and his fantastic fantasy coming to an end, it seems sort of sacrilege to say it.

Blaine falls forward, bracing his hands on the lip of his tub so he can ride it out, and as the sensation of warmth and euphoria melts away from his body, all that remains is him, his machine, and the shower he's standing in, convenient since a shower would feel amazing about now.

And if not amazing, well, then it's just the thing he needs to usher him back to reality, wake his ass up, and make him realize where he is, what he's doing…

…that he's alone, being fucked by a machine, and that the handsome man with the stunning blue-grey eyes and the dynamic smile, the only man who's ever called him _gorgeous_ , had no real, corporeal part in it.

But, again, he tacks that in his mind - thoughts for another day.


	3. Chapter 3

When Blaine wakes in the morning, he's less sore in some places, more sore in others. But this time, it's not quite so debilitating, and he doesn't mind as much. His night with his machine in the shower sated him straight down to his core in a way he's never experienced. It ended with an amazing eight hours of sleep – the best he's had in the past five years. Lying in bed, he stretches out his legs, bends his knees, and lifts his hips off the mattress to get blood flowing to the right places. He thinks he can get a handle on walking, which will make going to _The Hot Shot_ and seeing Kurt less awkward, as long as he doesn't run into Mrs. Filch with her helpful, and likely _unintentionally_ offensive, advice. This soreness that he's feeling, it's the good kind of sore, the perfect variety of _the-morning-after-incredible-sex_ sore. It's the kind of sore that Blaine wishes he could bottle, as ridiculous as that sounds, because it also comes with an intense feeling of frothy happiness and a calm, peaceful mind.

It's as close to nirvana as he's probably ever going to get in his lifetime.

Blaine wishes it came with a side order of love and affection, arms to hold him under the covers, lips to kiss him awake, and a body to sleep next to at night, but he understands a bit more of what he's in for now. If he's going to keep up this charade, use his machine night after night and wallow in a fantasy because he's determined that a real relationship is off the table, then certain trade-offs need to be made.

Technically, he should man up and keep Kurt out of this, but fantasizing about him - Kurt's prismatic eyes watching him, his otherworldly voice tempting him - put Blaine over the edge big time. Giving that up would be as heartbreaking as ditching his machine. What Kurt doesn't know won't hurt him, right? No harm, no foul? Blaine rolls onto his stomach when these fleeting thoughts of Kurt start to make him hard, and buries his face into his pillow, smiling against the cool fabric, content that as long as what he does in his apartment behind closed doors stays in his apartment, no one will get hurt.

No ethical dilemma here. Blaine can definitely keep his fantasy man – his beguiling blue eyes and his sinful voice.

Rutting his morning erection against his sheets, he pictures Kurt there with him, waking up early to get down to his coffee shop. The sign on the door says he opens at five a.m., but Blaine figures that he has to get there earlier for deliveries and whatnot. Blaine can imagine Kurt sneaking out of bed quietly, trying so hard not to wake Blaine, but Blaine, already wise to his schedule, grabs his hand and drags him back to bed, begging him to stay a minute longer for one more kiss, one more hug, one more cuddle. What would Kurt's skin feel like first thing in the morning? What does he smell like? Does he use some kind of floral body wash to rinse the smell of coffee off his skin? Or a strong, woody aftershave? Blaine has never noticed what Kurt wears.

As daylight peeks through his window, calling him out of bed, those questions swirl through Blaine's brain – tidbits of information, simple little things that Blaine doesn't know.

With Blaine's curiosity piqued, he knows that, like with the settings on the machine, the vision of Kurt's eyes and the memory of his voice won't be enough next time. Blaine wants more. He _needs_ more. He wants to heighten the experience, make it even more personal.

But exactly how he can do that, Blaine hasn't got a clue.

* * *

Standing in line at _The Hot Shot_ , Blaine does something he's done dozens of times before, just not with his current motivation in mind. He watches Kurt, observes how he moves in the space behind the counter, how his clothes fit his body, how he exists in his own skin. Blaine notices that Kurt tosses his hair out of his eyes when he pauses to take an order, that he drums his fingers on the countertop before he hurries off to pour the coffee. Blaine listens to the way he talks to each customer, sees his patient smile, his eyes light up, notices the things he tends to comment on about his customers:

"Your sweater is way too cozy! You know, I've been looking for a comfy, oversized, cable-knit sweater in that shade of ecru…"

"That is such a fun hat! And what a bold choice with the wide brim. How do you not fly away with that breeze blowing outside? Say _what's up_ to Sally Field for me…"

"That bracelet is fierce times a thousand! If I wasn't working with food, I think I'd wear one myself…"

"I have a scarf just like that one at home! Alexander McQueen? I knew it! Love the skulls…"

Blaine furrows his brow as he puts all those comments together. _Fashion_. How did it take Blaine _this_ long for him to realize that Kurt has an eye for fashion? The day they met, Kurt commented on Blaine's Gucci blue cream bowtie. And didn't he mention reading _Vogue_? Now that Blaine looks back on the compliments he can recall Kurt giving, most of them dealt with (what Kurt often called) _say something accessories_.

God! Blaine could kick himself!

But the one habit of Kurt's that Blaine has probably taken for granted is the way Kurt reacts when he catches Blaine on line. It's not only his tone of voice that changes. His eyes widen, his chest stutters, and his smile grows, lifting his entire face. On this foray through line, waiting his turn, he sees Kurt's eyes flick up and search him out after every order, his cheeks getting progressively darker until Blaine realizes why.

He's staring.

Blaine reaches the counter. Kurt opens his mouth to say _hi_ , but Blaine beats him to the punch.

"Hey, handsome," Blaine says, and whatever Kurt had been planning as a greeting stops dead on his lips.

"H-hey," Kurt says, Blaine's flattery adding dimples to Kurt's cheeks. "How's your day going so far?"

"I've been awake for a grand total of two hours," Blaine says, "and the first person I've spoken to is you, so I'd say it's going pretty well."

"I…" Kurt stammers, momentarily taken aback, "that's nice of you to say."

"You know," Blaine moves on, reaching for his wallet, suave as he continues to sail on last night's high, "I don't think I've ever asked you, but what _is_ that delicious smelling cologne you wear?"

Kurt bites his lower lip, eyes following the stream of coffee he's pouring. "Cologne? I don't wear cologne."

Blaine cocks an eyebrow. "You don't?"

"Nope," Kurt says, capping Blaine's cup and sliding it across the counter.

"Why not?" Blaine asks, handing Kurt his money. "Are you allergic?

Kurt peeks up at Blaine with incredulity in his eyes.

"I don't mean to invade your privacy," Blaine backpedals. "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable or anything."

"It's not that. You're just…asking a lot of questions," Kurt points out. "A bit more than usual."

"Well, I'm a curious guy," Blaine says, having the decency to cringe internally at how frickin' cheesy that sounds.

Kurt snickers at Blaine's lame comeback. "I'm actually very fond of cologne," he says, leaning his hip into the counter and his shoulder on the glass case beside him. "I personally think the right scent is as important in a person's personal arsenal of expression as the clothes they wear, their makeup, their hairstyle. It's like" – Kurt's gazes up and away, searching for a way to put his thoughts into words, and as he does, Blaine stays fixated on his face, watching Kurt's tongue wet his lips, his eyes crinkle at the corners, his teeth pinching the corner of his mouth. The way Kurt's mouth works fascinates Blaine in particular, and he memorizes each tiny detail - the lines on his lips, their rosy shade touched by a hint of blue, the way the lower lip settles into a natural pout – "a fine wine. Alone, it's good - exceptional, even. But, let's face it - it's really just a glass of fermented grape juice. But pair it with the right entrée, and it becomes an invaluable part of the meal. You don't swig it, you chew it, savor it. I've always wanted to create the perfect scent to match my individual body chemistry. You know, something that no one else in the world has." Kurt's gaze comes back down to earth with a sigh, and he shrugs that daydream away. "But I don't like to wear anything too strong here in the coffee shop. I don't want to put the customers off their lattes and muffins. You know, smell is such a big part of taste, and instrumental in appreciating food. I wouldn't want to overwhelm the palate with things like cedar and musk, when what I really want is for people to enjoy their Italian Roast and their sun-dried bagels."

"That's very considerate of you," Blaine says, astonished by Kurt's explanation. None of that had ever occurred to him. The fact that Kurt puts such thought and care into what he does, his consideration for his customers, is extremely attractive.

"Oh, well, I don't think it's only me," Kurt says, ringing Blaine up with a guilty glance at the line that's been forming behind him while they've been discussing wine and personal scent preferences. "I think anyone who makes a living teasing the taste buds of others feels that way."

Blaine licks his lips, relishing that particular turn of phrase.

 _Teasing the taste buds._

Blaine can't help but wonder, simply for the sake of science, how Kurt tastes.

"But there is…a _scent_ that seems to hang around you," Blaine says.

"Is there?" Kurt asks, scrunching his nose and taking a sniff. "Well, my shampoo is vanilla, but I don't think you can smell it from across the counter. And I use organic coconut oil on my skin."

"Vanilla and coconut," Blaine repeats. "That sounds like an _intoxicating_ combination."

Kurt looks from the register to Blaine with pink cheeks and extremely inquisitive eyes.

"Will there be anything else for you today?" Kurt asks, handing over Blaine's change.

"Uh, no," Blaine says, taking the dollars and coins, and holding up his cup. "Not today, thank you. I think I've got everything I need."

* * *

When Blaine leaves work, he goes on a mini shopping excursion. It takes him hitting a total of six different bed and bath type stores to find a vanilla candle that smells anything like the inside of Kurt's coffee shop. He's able to find coconut oil at Whole Foods, and while he's there, he buys a fillet of salmon for dinner, along with a bottle of Pinot Noir. Salmon and Pinot were always Blaine's go-to fare when he invited someone over to his place. After his conversation with Kurt that morning, Blaine has an inkling to do something special, to treat himself.

He also has a ravenous craving for wine. Go figure.

He gets home, and immediately starts his evening of pampering with a long, hot shower. He doesn't touch himself while he's in there. He wants the buildup brewing in his body there for later, when he's on all fours at the mercy of his machine. The purpose of the shower is to wash the day away - the two private students who canceled on him last minute, the five car pileup that made him late for his first lecture, the girl on the subway who dropped two scoops of a vanilla cone on his calfskin leather shoes. He wants it gone, all of it except for his morning conversation with Kurt. _That_ he holds on to, going over their conversation in his head, recounting snippets, letting certain words that Kurt says and how he says them curl inside his brain, weave into the folds, and take root there.

Blaine keeps his shower brief, lets his body air dry, and then after, he smooths the coconut oil on. It feels super oily at first, but Blaine was prepared for that. The girl at the register, who spent a good fifteen minutes regaling Blaine with the health benefits of coconut oil (as if she needed to persuade him, and not like he hadn't purchased the product from her seconds before) said that a little bit goes a long way.

And boy, does it ever.

Blaine rubs it into his skin, amazed at how his skin sucks it up. He thought he had been doing well with his moisturizing regimen, but apparently he's been suffering from dry winter skin without even knowing it.

Thank you, Kurt.

Once the aroma of coconut mixes with the humid air in the bathroom, the room smells heavenly. Blaine now knows that that sweet undercurrent his nose picks up when he walks through the coffee shop's doors isn't coming from the pastry in the cases.

It's coming from _Kurt_.

Blaine has to make it a point to breathe in deeper the next time he goes there.

Add a pot of brewing coffee, and his bathroom would smell almost exactly like the inside of Kurt's shop.

Blaine throws on a pair of indigo jeans and a crisp, white button down. He rolls the cuffs up to his elbows and fixes them in place with a pair of gold links, thinking that Kurt would very much approve. Then he heads to the kitchen to get started making his dinner.

For the last few years, dinner hasn't been an event, not the way it is when he's dating someone. Lately, dinner has been a meal comprised of whatever he can throw together, microwave until hot, and eat on the sofa in front of the TV, or at his dining room table with a book open in front of him.

Dinner devolves into such a non-occasion when there's no one there to share it with.

Preparing the fish, seasoning it, chopping up vegetables to go with it, then wrapping it in parchment, each step from fridge to oven is an opportunity – to reflect, to unwind, to ground himself. Engaging all his senses, using his hands, connecting with something intimately, salivating with anticipation – it's almost like making love.

Down at _The Hot Shot_ , handcrafting his specialty drinks, making those scrumptious-sounding sandwiches (that Blaine's never thought to try), Blaine wonders if Kurt sees it that way.

Blaine decants his bottle of wine. Then he takes the time to set his table with a champagne linen tablecloth and ruby-colored taper candles, standing in an arrangement of three crystal candlesticks his mother gave him when he moved in to his first apartment. While his fish rests on a mesquite plank, he preps for later, positioning his machine in the dead center of the living room. He lines the mantle and the coffee table with his scented candles – seven of them total, in thick glass jars. One by one, he lights them. He'll let them burn during dinner, giving the room time to fill with the warm, milky scent of Madagascar Vanilla.

Blaine arranges his dinner on one of his favorite, thrift-store find China plates, and carries it to the dining room table. He sets his plate down, and pours himself a glass of wine. He sits in his chair, pulls it in, and takes a moment to appreciate the overall splendor. He stares through the candlelight at the seat opposite him.

The _empty_ seat opposite him.

The dining room is quiet. It's _always_ quiet, but going through all this trouble to prepare a romantic dinner for one seems to emphasize exactly how quiet the room is. He gets up and turns on his iPod, sitting in a dock on the coffee table. He selects a playlist of classical piano concertos to fill in the void created by a lack of company and conversation. If Kurt were there with him, sitting in that chair on the opposite end of the table, partaking in Blaine's salmon, he would probably appreciate it.

Though Kurt might prefer a playlist of Broadway hits.

But the music would be a backdrop. If Kurt were there, Blaine wouldn't eat in silence.

He starts to imagine what he would talk to Kurt about if he were right there with him.

He might talk about his past, his relationships, why he didn't want to date anyone when they first met.

No, that's not first date conversation, though maybe Kurt wouldn't actually consider this a first date at all, seeing as Blaine's been going to his coffee shop for almost half a year. But still, Blaine would want to keep it light.

He could tell Kurt about this one student he has – Rachel. _Ugh!_ Total diva. Wants to be the next Barbra Streisand. And what's worse, she's actually a _prodigy_. Only twelve-years-old and studying at one of the foremost universities for musical theater in the country. Plus, she's been on Broadway already…twice! And Blaine can't even cut a record.

Where's the justice?

 _Sigh_.

He can't talk about that. Kurt might think he's petty and insensitive. At _The Hot Shot_ , Kurt is never anything but patient and polite, even when the coffee shop is loud and his line's out the door.

No. Cutting down a twelve-year-old as a basis for making conversation is not the way to go…even if she maybe deserves it. Just a little.

A joke, Blaine thinks. Maybe he should tell a joke.

Blaine mentally scrolls through his repertoire of jokes.

Currently, he only has five – three are knock-knock jokes he learned in the third grade, one's kind of gross and a little misogynistic, and the other – shoot. He doesn't know the punchline to that one. Damn! That one's the only funny one he knows. Maybe he can Google the punchline. Or maybe he can Google some jokes.

Or maybe he should pass on the jokes, the anecdotes, and the stories, and talk from his heart.

He can tell Kurt what he thought of his singing that first day, how his voice was like a magical flute calling him in from the sidewalk when he didn't know where to go. He can tell Kurt what it means to Blaine every day to go to his coffee shop and see him, talk to him. He can tell Kurt how much he appreciates that, even with his hundreds of customers, he seems to go out of his way to make Blaine feel special. He can tell Kurt how handsome he is, how seeing his smiling face every morning fills him with unspeakable joy, a happiness he thought he'd be denied for the rest of his life after his last relationship failure.

He can tell Kurt how lucky he is that he's had this chance to meet him and to know him.

Blaine lifts his glass of wine in a silent toast to the empty seat.

Yeah. If he ever gets a chance to have Kurt over, he's definitely starting with that.

Blaine finishes his dinner and his wine, glancing over the rim of his glass at the living room with everything in it, ready for him to begin.

He chose the living room to play with his toy in this time because it seemed spontaneous and fun.

If Kurt were there, at this point, they'd be done eating dinner. They'd be laughing, drinking a second glass of wine, talking about their lives. Blaine would start to clear the table, but Kurt would put a hand to his wrist, stopping him, and then…

A hand reaches up his chest, snaking around the back of his neck, grabbing and holding hard. The aggressive contact pulls a moan from Blaine's throat, and he slides down in his chair, head thrown back, pushing into the hand massaging his neck with firm fingers. Another hand creeps down his torso to his jeans, shaking fingers tugging at the top button, unable to get it undone, so it strokes him to hardness through his jeans with urgency, with raw desire, with hunger. The hand on his neck disappears, returning to Blaine's mouth with a drop of wine hanging heavy on the tip of the middle finger. It traces over Blaine's lips, and Blaine's mouth follows it. Blaine catches it, sucking it into his mouth, and when he does, a high tinkling laugh rings inside his head.

 _"I didn't know you were a wine drinker."_

"Yes," Blaine says, accepting another finger of wine dipping inside his mouth. "Every now and then."

 _"So, you like the taste of fermented grape juice?"_

Blaine smiles.

"I do," he says. "But I like the taste of _you_ better."

 _"Mmm, I like the way that sounds…"_

Blaine pushes to his feet, a hand back in his hair, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, heading back to his fly, palm kneading the erection crowding his jeans, bringing him to his knees. He's a stumbling mess, undressing amid the fantasy of Kurt struggling with his button fly, giggling when he pulls hard and the denim slips from his nervous fingers.

"It's okay, baby," Blaine says. "Pull all you want. You can't rip it."

 _"Good. Because it would be such a shame if I did. I have to say that these jeans…mmm…they're my favorite on you. They fit you so well."_

"You'd know. You're the expert."

 _"Well, in my expert opinion, they'd look so much better down around your knees."_

His shirt unbuttoned, jeans dragged sloppily down over his ass, Blaine butts up against his machine, lining up to the arm without even needing to look. With his machine secured to the hardwood floor, Blaine crawls backward, stretching himself over the slicked up dildo. He strokes his cock with one hand while he holds the dildo steady with the other, this process going much smoother after two nights of this. He opted to go with the slightly larger dildo from the night before because he feels, in his own mind, that it might best represent Kurt – around seven inches, narrow, uncut, and absolutely beautiful.

"Oh God," Blaine moans, the stretch more dramatic from not being opened up beforehand, but like the soreness from this morning, it's a good feeling, a burn that starts his heart pumping, his knees wobbling, his cock pulsing in his fist. He switches the machine on, four above low. He pushes and pulls with the arm, strokes and shudders with his hand, and as soon as he has his body completed seated, he closes his eyes…and there's Kurt.

 _His_ Kurt – here, at least.

He imagines Kurt under him, grabbing his shoulders, kneading his biceps, head tossed back to expose the pale column of his neck. The image doesn't match the position that Blaine's in, but fuck it. It's hot, and he hardly cares. Blaine licks down his arm, but in his mind, it's Kurt's neck that he's licking, caressing his soft skin with his tongue. He stops at a pulse point, lapping over the thrumming skin, nibbling gently, then sucking hard, until Kurt, inside his head, squirms.

 _"Oh,_ _Blaine_." That tortured voice in Blaine's head makes his heart leap, but this time, Kurt's around him, too, his body bathed in that comforting smell of coconut, the room immersed in silky vanilla.

He bucks back against the machine, giving himself the impression of riding Kurt's impressive cock, Kurt whimpering with pleasure at every backward thrust.

 _"Oh, Blaine…oh, God…oh, Blaine…oh, God…"_

A simple chant of total surrender, sung to the tune of the piano music still lilting through the air.

Blaine doesn't want this to be over so quickly, but after his daydream this morning of waking up in bed with Kurt; talking to Kurt at _The Hot Shot_ about cologne and wine; the expectation building up inside his stomach beside his rational brain counting the hours, one by one, until he could come home and enact this – he was done before he even started. This session with his machine is the result of an all-day seduction, starting with Kurt and ending with Kurt – and the man doesn't even know.

Blaine starts panting, drooling, kissing hard at his own flesh with the machine turned up nearly full blast, teeth digging in when he thinks he's about to scream. He turns his head into his shoulder to wipe the sweat off his brow and inhales in, that scent of coconut heavy here with the heat of his body exciting the aroma, and without so much as a warning, a coil of energy winding in his stomach and pulling up his balls, he cums over his fist and his hardwood floor, much the way he did the first time, except when he drops his head to his arm folded in front of him, he's repeatedly kissing his own skin with the fantasy of Kurt underneath him, kissing him back.

The kisses slow, and so does the machine, Blaine dialing down the thrusts without taking his mind off the dream of his barista, whose eyes fade from his mind as other sensations fade, bringing Blaine back to reality and dropping him face first onto his living room floor.

"God," Blaine groans, looking back at the dildo stretching his ass as he slides off his machine. "That is definitely the cure for what ails you, hmm?" He lowers himself to the ground and rolls on his side. "So," Blaine pants, raising an eyebrow at the mechanical marvel that's been servicing his ass tirelessly for three days so far, "how was that for you?" He laughs, his head suddenly spinning like a Roulette Wheel, his living room sliding from left to right. The pinprick lights of the candle flames dot his vision, swirling like the stars in a Van Gogh painting, and then straightening. Blaine shifts to his back and stares up at the ceiling, letting it all fall back into place.

"God, that was just…God, Kurt," Blaine mutters, holding on to the fantasy of Kurt being there a second or two longer, lying on the floor beside him, holding his hand, his head resting against Blaine's shoulder, as they both contemplate the recessed ceiling above their heads as if they were gazing up at the moon in the night sky. "I wonder…what that would be like with the _real_ you."


	4. Chapter 4

When Blaine wakes up the next morning, he feels different.

He still has that incredible soreness, that full body, deep in his skin and down to his bones feeling of utter satisfaction, but there's something else germinating along with it, like a dandelion sprouting among its roots. He doesn't feel sick, or anxious, he's not tired from too much exertion and too little sleep. He just feels like something's not right. As amazing as last night was, and as much as he's dying to do it again (this morning, if possible) something inside him feels…missing.

Empty.

Like overnight, a piece has been carved out of him.

He might normally not have noticed. In relationships, in work, and life in general, he's used to giving a lot and getting too little in return. Bits of himself probably litter the 591 mile stretch between Ohio and New York. But this missing piece has left a hole, and as small as it is, as insignificant in size, it resounds in his chest like a bass drum pounding out a steady rhythm every time his heart beats.

Because, he realizes as a hard knot forms behind his ribcage, that's where this piece is missing from – his heart. Blaine lifts a hand and presses the heel of it to his chest, trying to massage the knot out, but morning adrenaline kicks in, his heart starts to race, and the knot gets harder.

He figures it could have something to do with the dream he was having right before he woke up.

He was lying in bed, with his arms folded around his pillow, his bare chest pressed against his cool cotton sheets, when he suddenly got the feeling he wasn't alone. At the start, that wasn't an unusual dream for him to have. When he first broke off with his ex, he had that dream almost every night. It made him break out in a cold sweat, trapped him with the fear of moving or breathing, the way a child would be afraid of the monster under their bed finding them alone. The dreams stole his sense of security, his peace. They startled him from a dead sleep with a knot growing inside his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe, similar to this one lodged in his chest, except, in this case, less so.

But this time, when he felt a presence in his room, he wasn't afraid.

He swore he felt the mattress dip, then strong arms wind around him. There was a kiss to his temple, then the feeling of breath puffing gently against his upper arm, with a brush of lips following behind, caressing his skin, raising excited little bumps. As he started to rouse, he heard a voice singing softly in his ear, luring him from his dreams.

He felt incredibly warm, incredibly cared for.

Incredibly loved.

" _Good morning, gorgeous_ ," an alluring high-voice whispered, and Blaine smiled.

"Good morning, handsome," he said, turning to accept the kiss he was sure was waiting to greet him. But when he opened his eyes in search of that person, to kiss their cheek and nuzzle in their neck, to start on the harmony to the melody they were singing, no one was there. Blaine was lying with his head turned on his arm, his breath ghosting his skin, his arm wrapped around him in sleep, and he was singing to himself.

He was alone - just like he is every other day.

Blaine's not entirely surprised by this turn of events. He had a suspicion that this might happen, even though he wasn't entirely prepared for it. He always did have an overactive imagination, a rich fantasy life. But he has to push past it, remind himself that a fantasy is a fantasy, nothing more, the same way he did when the dreams were nightmares and the person in the room was out to hurt him. Blaine's not with Kurt. _He_ made the decision not to be with Kurt, so he can't be heartbroken every time he discovers that Kurt's not there, that the dream's not real.

Blaine forces himself more awake – rubs his eyes, scratches his head, reaches down his body and massages reluctant muscles. His hand drifts to his cock, only half-hard, not as incredibly lively as it had been the morning prior.

Last night was phenomenal – the best it's ever been for him, even, sadly enough, with another person. But as he sits fondling himself, his fantasy from the evening flashing through his mind – the flirty banter, the make-believe kisses, pretending to lick down Kurt's neck and hearing him whimper - Blaine knows he wants more. He's gone past the physical now – beyond eyes and voice and touch. He wants a deeper connection, friendship, intimacy more than lust.

He wants something he doesn't already have, he wants to learn something he doesn't know. He wants Kurt to do the one thing he does best.

Surprise him.

* * *

"Cream cheese and lox – the classic…with bean curd and chili dip? _Dude_ …"

 _Step_.

"A long shot cappuccino with a protein shot and a shot of espresso on the side… _what_? That's a lotta shots. Do we even sell that? We do? Well, I'll be…"

 _Step_

"A half caff latte with a sprinkle of milk shake mix and topped with cappuccino micro foam…see, now, you're just making stuff up…"

 _Step_.

"An everything bagel with garlic spread, a bran muffin with a smear of honey…and mustard? Is there a full moon or something, or are y'all pregnant?"

 _Step_.

Chuckling covertly over Kurt's jokes with his customers, Blaine refers to his notes. But these aren't notes for one of his classes. They're notes he jotted down at home and on the subway here, topics of conversation he can bring up with Kurt. Lying in bed, thinking over his want for information, he realized that the most erotic thing that actually happened yesterday wasn't being fucked on all fours on his living room floor (though that was hot as hell), it was the conversation he'd had with Kurt that morning. In that few minutes while Blaine was holding up Kurt's line of customers, he'd found out more about the man than he'd uncovered in all the months he'd been coming here. He felt like he'd broken a barrier, seen the man underneath the dropped hints and the playful wit.

Behind those singular eyes and that voice.

But that was kind of a fluke. They'd never discussed anything for that long before. Nothing ever took Kurt's mind away from his customers. It was a first. Kurt's business, his _customers_ , mean a lot to him. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who puts them on hold lightly.

Blaine has several topics written down that he's been ruminating over, but none of which he feels has the potential to engage Kurt the way the topic of cologne had yesterday.

"A six-Splenda, no-foam, 130-degrees nonfat latte, with the Splenda stirred in before the milk is added…okay, let's take a deep breath, let it out, and why don't you tell me who hurt you, baby…"

 _Step_.

Blaine gets closer to the counter, just two customers away, and he hasn't settled on a topic. He scans the list quickly, hoping to trip on the one thing that will burst the flood gates.

"Grande? Venti? Trenta? Nuh-uh. We're not Starbucks, hun. Small, medium, large, and five-gallon drum – that's what we've got here. I recommend the five-gallon drum…"

 _Step_.

Blaine stops scanning his list and smiles. He thinks he knows the one thing he can ask Kurt about that will make him open up.

His coffee shop.

But first, Blaine needs an ice breaker.

He watches the customer in front of him walk away with a cup and a wax paper bag, and suddenly, the clouds in Blaine's brain part and the stars align. Blaine steps up to the counter, disarming Kurt again with another of his megawatt grins.

"Do you have any scones?" Blaine asks when Kurt slides his ready and waiting coffee cup across the counter.

"Scones?" Kurt repeats. His delighted smile when he says the word is as warm as his other smiles, but this one's new to Blaine. He seems excited. "Of course, I do. Make 'em fresh myself every morning."

"You do?" Blaine asks, sincerely impressed. How has he been coming in here every day for more than half a year and he didn't know that? He assumed that Kurt hired someone to make them, or that maybe he got them from a bakery nearby. Some of the coffee shops near NYADA (the ones that aren't Starbucks) have arrangements with local mom and pop bakeries to sell their baked goods.

But Kurt makes his own.

So, on top of the numerous made-to-order sandwiches and one-of-a kind bagel combinations he throws together, he also bakes. Blaine knows Kurt sells about a dozen different kinds of muffins. Are those him? He probably makes his own bagels and bread, too. Gah! Why doesn't Blaine know this?

"Is blueberry alright?" Kurt asks in the midst of Blaine's mini mental episode. "We also have honey, pistachio, walnut, cranberry-orange…pumpkin spice?"

"Blueberry would be great," Blaine says, following Kurt along the front of the counter as he walks over to the bakery case and grabs a pastry. "So, Paninis, bagels, muffins, scones…did you go to culinary school to learn all this, or do you experiment in your own kitchen at home?"

"My mom taught me when I was about five or six," Kurt explains, putting the largest of the blueberry scones from the case into a wax paper bag.

"Oh," Blaine says, "it runs in the family. Was she a baker?"

"No," Kurt says, a slight tarnish obscuring his bright smile. "She was a housewife and a mom. She learned to bake from her mom, and so on, and so on." Kurt stares at the bag, rolling the edge down while he chews something over. "She…wanted to be a ballerina," he reveals, somewhat hesitantly, with his voice lowering to a more conversational level. "But, she was considered too curvy to make the cut. You're in the arts. You know how it is."

"Oh," Blaine says. "That's too bad. Was she any good? As a dancer?"

Kurt smiles wide again, but it doesn't wipe the tarnish away. As the corners of his mouth lift his cheeks, that tarnish seems to spread to Kurt's eyes.

"My father says she was."

Blaine nods. He feels like he's missing something, something important, but he's not sure exactly what.

"So, what did she think when you opened the coffee shop?" he asks. "I mean, she had to have been a huge influence on you? Ooo" - Blaine leans on the counter – "does she hang out in the back taste testing all of your recipes?"

Kurt's eyes dart to the side, and Blaine immediately gets the impression that he asked the exact wrong thing.

"My mom passed away when I was eight years old," Kurt says. "So, no – she didn't get to see any of this."

"Oh," Blaine says, feeling like the most heartless creep who ever lived considering his reasons for this interrogation. What right did he have to pry? Kurt seemed uncomfortable two or three sentences ago. Why has Blaine not yet learned to read facial cues? "Oh Kurt, I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Kurt says. "It's alright. You didn't know. And you would think, you know, that after all this time, it wouldn't get to me as much. But, she was more than my mom. She was really my best friend, and, well" – Kurt shrugs his left shoulder – "I miss having one of those. It's kind of been a while."

 _God_ , Blaine thinks, feeling a wedge widen the space of that missing piece. _So, Kurt's lonely, too. Handsome, charming, outgoing Kurt, who always has a kind word, a compliment, or a joke for most everyone who walks through his door._

Something else they have in common.

Something that Blaine didn't know about Kurt that he should have known a long time ago.

"So, uh, did she teach you how to sing, too?" Blaine asks, picking another subject from his list in the hopes of lightening the mood.

Kurt looks up at Blaine over the glass case, his cheeks flushed pink as if Blaine had unearthed his deepest, darkest secret.

If Kurt only knew about some of Blaine's dark secrets…

"Wha-how do you know I sing?" Kurt asks, handing Blaine the wax paper bag and a napkin.

"The first day I ever came in here," Blaine says, coyly glancing down at the napkin Kurt gave him, "you were singing karaoke with another employee - the song _Rose's Turn_ , which, I have to say, goes perfect with your voice."

"Oh, yeah, I remember." Kurt laughs, his eyes darting up to the left, rewinding his mind back to that day. "God. That's quite the memory you have."

"I'm a musician, so I never forget a beautiful voice," Blaine says, looking at Kurt through his lashes. "Will we ever get to hear you sing again?"

"Uh…" Kurt's jaw drops, and Blaine finds that catching him off guard this way is tantalizing. "I…usually only sing in the late evening or early morning, while I'm baking. If you're ever in this part of the city at, say, three a.m., you might hear me." Kurt laughs. "Though I wouldn't recommend it. This isn't the greatest neighborhood at night."

Blaine pulls out a five and a one from his pocket and pays for his coffee and scone. Kurt reaches for the register, but Blaine puts up a hand. "Keep the change."

"Well," Kurt says, folding the one dollar bill and dropping it into the tip jar on the counter, "my employees thank you."

"Your employees are welcome," Blaine says. "And maybe you'll be so kind as to perform for us again soon."

Kurt's smile starts small, is bashful, but it reaches his eyes and makes his entire face glow, until none of the tarnish remains. "Maybe I will."

* * *

Blaine spends another train ride home searching Google, but not for sex toys this time.

He looks up scone recipes.

There seems to be a thousand or so different variations on the scone – English, Irish, savory, sweet. Blaine goes with _simple_ \- six ingredients (that don't require him to stop off for anything), and four easy steps. Considering that his previous experiences with baking have been confined to anything he can make out of a box, simple suits him best.

When he gets home, he foregoes the shower, eager to start in on the brand new fantasy he conjured up on the train, but he does have to deal with some preparation – getting his machine ready (with the same dildo as the last two nights, seeing as it is now his favorite), and re-lighting his vanilla candles, which have already burned halfway into their jars. He switches on his iPod, but this time he chooses a playlist that's a combination of his favorite Broadway hits and complimentary older pop tunes. He goes to his kitchen and lays out his ingredients on the counter, then gathers all of his tools, putting everything in the order the recipe says he'll need them. He finds his large mixing bowl (collecting dust in a lower cabinet since the last time he used it was to make a birthday cake for his ex), gives it a thorough cleaning, and dries it with a dish towel. With each step, he moves through the mirror from real life into fantasy, taking him farther away from the places he's been and closer to the one he wants to get to. He sets his dried bowl down on the counter, props his phone against his toaster with the recipe displayed, and starts getting down to business.

He concentrates on his work, a cup of flour first, a few tablespoons of butter next, working them together until they become crumbly, setting aside his spoon to get his hands into the mix. Kneading, creating, cooking, he feels closer to that world Kurt exists in, the one where he could be now, either at home making himself dinner, or at the coffee shop getting a jumpstart on tomorrow - measuring, sifting, baking, singing...

 _"If you wanted scones, I don't know why you didn't just ask me to make you some."_

Blaine bites his lower lip. "Because _I'm_ making them for _you,_ silly. They were _supposed_ to be a surprise."

 _Blaine feels lips against his neck as eyes peer over his shoulder._ _"Apple sauce? Sour cream? Sugar and chocolate chips? Who the hell came up with this recipe? A five-year-old?"_

"The bio on the website says he's an actual chef."

 _An offended bark of laughter. "Which proves that any lunatic can put anything on the Internet, hun, and people will believe it's true."_

"Really?" Blaine chuckles. "So what have _you_ put up on the Internet lately?"

 _A gasp. "Bite your tongue, young man."_

"Hmm" - Blaine grins. He likes the sound of that - "You can always bite it for me."

 _"I won't if you don't behave yourself." A hand swats Blaine's behind. "You know, you're supposed to mix the dry and the wet separately, and then combine the two."_

"That's not what the recipe says to do."

 _"Well, do you want to stick with the recipe, or do you want to do it the right way?"_

"Ooo, them there's fighting words."

 _"So, you gonna fight me?"_

"No. I was hoping to do something else with you…" Blaine shuts his eyes and licks batter off his fingers, tasting of sweet applesauce and tart sour cream, pulling on each digit until he hears a moan.

It doesn't matter that the moan's his own. In his head, it belongs to someone else.

 _"What did you have in mind? Parcheesi? Chess? Backgammon? Pictionary?"_

"Do you enjoy playing games?"

 _"I enjoy playing with you. You are quickly becoming my favorite toy."_

Blaine hums. "Well, then, how about we play _Hide and Seek_?"

 _"How? You only have, like, three rooms."_

"I was thinking," Blaine whispers, "of taking something of mine, hiding it in something of yours, and then repeating that over, and over, and over."

A full-bodied laugh follows Blaine's comment, but it dissolves into a moan as mouths kiss, hands roam, with Blaine taking control and his fantasy man bending to his will, but only because he wants to. Only because Blaine's body around his is a gateway to ecstasy.

Blaine doesn't consciously start to walk, but he does. As he makes his way blindly to his bedroom and his machine (secured to the mattress with a harness that Blaine had to order specially) he slides along the floor in his socked feet, turning and twirling out of the way of furniture and over his shoes left lying around, almost like he's dancing. He sits on the edge of his bed as clothing is removed, teeth grazing his wrist and sucking a mark when his arms become bare, a hand softly caressing inside his boxer briefs as his jeans peel away.

Details blur, what's left of his clothes tossed to the floor, scratches appear where nails rake down his neck and chest. When and how he climbs up on the bed are inconsequential –it simply happens, as does finding the right position while lips tease his skin, hands open him up, fingers brush and stroke in an attempt to drive him wild. Then a finger, dipped in lube, circles his entrance in gentle laps like a tongue. Blaine falls back, knees spread, unraveling from his sense of self, redefining what it means to breathe, rediscovering the number of seconds in a minute, testing the limits of what his heart can take. And all the while, there's Kurt, the specter of him using his talented tongue, his fingers cupping and cradling. Blaine finds himself stretched over his dildo with his teeth biting into his palm, muffling a groan that sings with rapture. He dials the machine to only mid-way and keeps it there, letting its pace settle in the background, becoming the chorus instead of the tune.

His room is nearly pitch black, which Blaine never does. He hates the dark. But with nothing clear in front of him, he can envision Kurt with his eyes open, straddling his lap, fantastically naked, moving with deliberate slowness over Blaine's cock, smiling that new, excited smile, and just enjoying this.

Enjoying _Blaine_.

Blaine doesn't think anyone he's been with has ever truly enjoyed his body - the effort he puts into it, the pride he takes in the way it looks - as other than something they could use to get off. He's never had sex this way, lying on his back and gazing up, a front row seat to someone who adores him getting pleasure from him and giving him pleasure in return, enthusiastically in the case of his fantasy (which is actually his trusty fleshjack repurposed).

 _"Oh, Blaine…"_ The gasps begin and Blaine dials up his machine, his fleshjack mimicking what would be Kurt's movements as he goes faster.

"Kurt…" Blaine moans. "Kurt…Kurt…"

This isn't fucking, isn't urgent - grasping and rushed, reeking of desperation and a blatant desire to cum. This is more like making love. In a way, it goes a step beyond. It's _becoming_ lovers – that exhilarating learning stage, the honeymoon period of exploration, understanding through trial and error what makes one another tick, not just getting clothes off and pounding away.

It's something he should be sharing with Kurt, if they are ever meant to get this far.

"Oh, God, Kurt…Kurt… _Kurt_ …" Blaine finds himself moaning so loudly the neighbors might actually hear him, and oh, _God_! What if Kurt ever _does_ come over? What if the two of them get caught by one of Blaine's neighbors in the hallway, and Blaine introduces him. Then the neighbor smiles knowingly and says, "Oh! You're _that_ Kurt!"

Okay, well, _fuck_. More fallout to consider, but not right now.

Blaine's body starts to stiffen, starts to arch, coils back in its attempt to completely give way, and Blaine lets it, powerless to stop it, unwilling, muscles taking over while Blaine laughs in titillation that he _has_ this, while he moans because he _wants_ this, with Kurt's name on his lips because…because…

Shit! There's too many reasons, and his mind's turning into gravy. He'll pick one out later, one that perfectly fits this, one that defines who Kurt is and what Kurt is.

And what Kurt means to Blaine.

"Fuck! Kurt!" Blaine groans, his body stuttering to a halt, lifting partially off the bed, cumming, torqueing and twisting, trying to get away but keep going at the same time. He can imagine Kurt laughing, keeping him pinned by his hips, riding him till his heart's content, no matter how soft or sensitive he becomes.

And Blaine wants him to. Staring into the black of his bedroom where he's been picturing Kurt, he wishes to God he was there.

Blaine's addition to his fantasy this time isn't Kurt singing to him while they have sex. His voice sings to him when it's over, when Blaine's coming down from his high and slight twinges of depression start to bleed in. It waits till after, once he's spent, lying on the bed, readjusting to his quiet apartment, listening to the sound of his breathing as it slows – his breathing, and his alone. That's when he feels it. Something has definitely changed. It's strong, pushing away the soothing lull of an amazing orgasm and replacing it instead with regret.

Embarrassment.

And still, Blaine lets it continue. He pulls away from his machine when he turns it off, but he doesn't remove the fleshjack. He throws the blankets over himself, over all of it, pretending he's falling asleep inside Kurt, latching on to his happiness for as long as he can, even as a grey storm cloud of remorse crowds his chest.

This wasn't how it started; this wasn't what he planned, but this is what it's turning out to be.

But it's fixable. Blaine knows it is. It's all fixable.

Kurt can help him fix it. Blaine just needs a little bit more.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the remainder of the week and into the next, Blaine's machine has become an addiction for him, more than any other toy he's ever own, but that's because of its association to Kurt. Which means that Kurt, in essence, has become an addiction for him, too. Blaine knows there's something wrong with all of this – he feels it in his body when he wakes up in the morning. It's moved from his chest and his heart to reside in other spots – his hands, his knees, his throat, his tongue. It stems from those dreams of someone lying by his side, holding him through the night, waking him with kisses and with songs, and the gap in his heart becomes just that bit wider. But he figures that if someone _is_ getting hurt, it's just him hurting himself, and he's fine with that, as long as he gets to be happy for a little while, too.

Blaine starts going to Kurt's spot a half-an-hour earlier than normal, when there aren't as many people in line, and asks him a new question off of his list every time. While he waits his turn, he observes Kurt, listens to the inflections in his voice when he speaks, the different ways he laughs, the several ways he has of flipping his hair or rolling his eyes. He watches Kurt's hands, the gestures he makes when he points something out or when he talks animatedly, the way he handles the pastries and hands over the coffees, the way he waves goodbye to his regulars or hello to Blaine when he sees him on line.

Those hands – Blaine can't remember ever being captivated by anyone's hands the way Kurt's hands have so thoroughly captured his attention. They're as much a contradiction as Kurt is himself. His long, graceful fingers, pianist's fingers if Blaine ever saw, perfectly manicured nails and strong digits with what has to be a good octave-and-a-half spread, but on the underside, callouses that Blaine can tell Kurt's worked to smooth, probably daily, with moisturizing creams and a pumice stone. He has a few nicks, a couple of scars that are healing, a burn or two on his palm and his wrist from baking and working with the Panini grill. His hands speak volumes, the same as his eyes, of a young, lonely man, whose pain throughout life has not made him bitter, but fed his patience, and have made him incredibly kind.

When Blaine comes home in the evenings, sometimes he chooses to daydream, enjoying the act of setting up a scene, preparing the mood, laying out his props, going through the motions of foreplay, pretending Kurt is there to spend the evening with him, watching a movie, sharing a meal, even reading out loud, sitting beside Blaine on the sofa with his head on his shoulder. But mostly, Blaine goes straight for his machine, as if it's a lover waiting for him, completely undressed, having prepped for hours at the thought of fucking him, and more than ready to go. On a few occasions, Blaine has even started wearing a plug in the afternoons, inserting it before he leaves NYADA and heads for the train, letting himself fall into fantasies of his handsome barista on his ride home. The vibrations from the train jarring against the plug in his ass are blithely excruciating, and by the time he's through the door of his apartment, he can barely hold back.

But inevitably, as much as those fantasies fulfill him, slivers in other places disappear, and he needs something to fill them. And he fills them with pieces of _Kurt_ \- his favorite color, his favorite musical, his favorite author, his favorite food, stop gaps of information to plug up the holes. Those are fine for the shallow cracks, but there are deeper ones, and those require more than just what Indie band Kurt saw performing at NYU, or the epic sale he hit over at Neiman Marcus (though that one _did_ make Blaine jealous).

Kurt tells Blaine about when his mother died, how all he had left in the world at that point was his father, how, for a brief period of time, his father had started to pull away, and an eight-year-old Kurt, sad and scared, thought he would lose, him too.

He tells Blaine about the boy he fell head-over-heels in love with in high school, who ended up becoming his stepbrother a year later…and then passed away after Kurt left for college.

He tells Blaine about the relentless bullying he suffered at the hands of jocks, the never ending daily slurs and locker checks and ice cold drinks thrown in his face. He tells Blaine how, years later, he discovered that one of those bullies ended up being gay, and got bullied himself. That boy tried to hang himself, and Kurt visited him in the hospital every day, regardless of their appalling past together, until he was released, trying to make him realize that things do get better.

He tells Blaine about his father's heart attack, and how it changed the direction of Kurt's life, how it made him reconsider pursuing a degree in musical theater _(Blaine called it!)_ at NYADA of all places. Instead, Kurt opted to open a nice, safe business, so that his father could retire from his automotive shop while Kurt covered his medical bills.

In Blaine's effort to fill the crevices forming in his own fractured heart, Blaine asks all kinds of questions with few holds barred, but Kurt offers a lot of information without having to be asked, and has been vastly more forthcoming than Blaine. Blaine has only told Kurt the things that are comfortable for him on the surface.

Blaine tells Kurt about his older brother who struck out to become an actor, and that he actually made a commercial that aired nationwide, but that the two of them don't really get along. He doesn't tell Kurt about the years of constant vicious teasing he endured at the hands of a conceited sibling who repeatedly told Blaine that Blaine would never measure up, never be as talented, never make it on Broadway.

Blaine tells Kurt about his mother, and how supportive she's always been. What he doesn't tell him is about the long period of time when his mother suffered from alcoholism, or the times she blamed his father's leaving on him.

He tells Kurt about going to Prom with the boy he lost his virginity to, but not the fact that they were jumped after the dance and beaten by homophobic jocks, how Blaine went to the hospital with a concussion, a gash over his left eye, and a broken wrist.

In so many ways, Kurt and Blaine's lives mirrored one another. They followed paths so similar, it's really no wonder that Blaine feels this tremendous attraction to Kurt, why, even when he's leery of most men, he feels so comfortable around him. The only difference is that Kurt isn't afraid to share his pain with Blaine.

Blaine is terrified of opening up to Kurt.

But the more questions Blaine asks, the more Kurt becomes curious.

"Blaine, I need to ask you a question," Kurt says, toying with the cup in his hands when he would usually just slide it across the counter to Blaine.

"Okay," Blaine says, fishing out his wallet. "Fire away."

Kurt smiles. "I'm just going to come right out and say it because I'm not a big fan of beating around the bush, but…if tomorrow when you come in I asked you to have dinner with me, what would you say?"

Blaine freezes with his fiver half way out of his wallet.

"Oh," Blaine says. The world around him suddenly stops, as if time has folded itself in thirds, stuck itself in an envelope, and shipped itself away. He can't stop staring at Kurt, unsure what to say. Of course, his heart and his head both know that he should say yes. _Say yes_ , he tells himself. _Just say yes_. _Say yes_. But Kurt's question throws Blaine off. He hadn't made a decision on this yet. He'd made a decision about Kurt, yes, just not about whether he was ready for this step. Was he ready to date? Was he ready to take a chance at getting hurt, of losing out on a good thing if everything goes wrong? Because Kurt is a good thing, even at this point where they're just friends, his presence in Blaine's life is irreplaceable. If Blaine's going to date, Kurt is the one, no doubt about it. But he's still frightened. There's still something that has a hold on him, that he hasn't exactly worked through, so it hasn't let go. "Oh, uh…Kurt, I…"

"No, no," Kurt cuts him off. "I get it. I mean, you told me the first time I asked you out that you weren't looking for a relationship, and I agreed. It's just, you've been really flirty lately and talkative, asking all sorts of personal questions, and I…I guess I thought you'd changed your mind."

"Kurt…I…" Blaine sees in Kurt's eyes for the first time what Blaine's attention has been doing - giving him hope when Blaine hadn't realized that anything about him had changed. But it did, not just the slivers that were falling away when he woke in the morning, but _good_ changes, positive changes, a brand new enthusiasm, a confidence, an ease, and most of that had something to do with Kurt – "I'm so sorry, I..."

"No," Kurt says, waving his hand, dismissing Blaine's worry even when his cheeks start flaming red. "No, it's okay. That's on me. This is our thing, right? This is how we talk to each other. I mean, I started it, right? All those months ago? I shouldn't have assumed…"

"Kurt" - Blaine tries to get a word in, but an uptight man behind him speaks up.

"If you've paid for your coffee, can we move things along, young man?" he barks. "I'm late for work!"

Blaine shoots the man a look, but he doesn't comment. The man's right. Kurt's got a line practically circling the shop. Blaine's wasting Kurt's time. He's wasting everyone's time, and he shouldn't take any more of anything, not after what he's done.

Blaine puts the five on the counter and picks up his coffee without Kurt sliding it toward him.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Blaine mutters to the man while looking at Kurt. Kurt rings up the irritated man's order, takes his money, and hands back his change. He doesn't look at Blaine after his apology, nor after he gives the man his change. He retreats to the far end of the counter to make the man a sandwich, and Blaine, feeling more than a dozen pairs of eyes on him, slinks away.

* * *

" _There was love, all around, but I never heard it singing. No, I never heard it at all, till there was_ …Mr. Anderson…Mr. Anderson…Mr. Anderson!"

Blaine's head pops up where it's bowed over his piano keyboard, fingers resting on the keys in the position of the last chord he played – sitting there and doing nothing else.

"Huh?" He blinks at the young girl staring accusingly at him, her hands on her hips, tapping her toe. "Yes, Rachel?"

"That's the _fifth_ time you've zoned out and stopped playing, Mr. Anderson," she scolds. "How am I supposed to go into my next audition and wow them with my talent if you keep falling asleep at the keys?"

"I…I didn't fall asleep," Blaine says to the girl's sharp eyes. "I was just…thinking."

"Well, can you think on your own time?" Rachel asks. "Because I need you to play. Now. Right now." She taps a fingernail on the piano several times, then pulls up her posture, preparing to sing. When Blaine doesn't immediately play the chord, Rachel glares at him, at his fingers slacking off, and she sighs dramatically long. "What is it?" Rachel asks, knowing they won't get this rehearsal back on track if her unprofessional teacher is determined to mope and be gloomy.

Blaine looks at Rachel, taking a second to fully assess this twelve-year-old girl asking him to unload his problems for the sole purpose of returning to her audition piece. It might be an easier decision to make if she dressed in jeans and a dress shirt like a normal college student, but she's wearing a burgundy sweater with a white reindeer on the front (which she must have at least thirty of because she wears one every day, except in a different color, the picture on the front changing from a reindeer, to two reindeer, to a moose, to a carousel horse…one might even be a unicorn), a plaid skirt, and knee high white socks. She's only a kid, regardless of the fact that she's currently a college sophomore. Should he really consider divulging any details of his life to her?

Then again, she's the only one asking, even if her motive is completely selfish.

 _Huh_ , he thinks to himself. _That's something he can relate to_.

Okay, so maybe he doesn't go into the gritty details. Maybe he can approach it in a roundabout way.

"Rachel," Blaine says, looking away from the keys, "would you mind if I asked you a question?"

"Will we get back to rehearsing if you do?" he asks sternly.

"Absolutely," Blaine assures her. "In fact, I'll give you an extra half hour if you want, to compensate you for your time."

Rachel raises a brow. Blaine isn't the most focused music teacher she could ask for, but he is one of the highest in demand. Fiscally and professionally, it makes sense to take him up on his offer.

"Okay then," she says, crossing her arms in front of her. "Deal. Ask away."

"The first time you auditioned for Les Mis," he asks. "How did that go?"

"What do you mean, _how did that go_?" she asks, scrunching her nose. "You've been to auditions before, I trust. You know how they work."

"Yes, I have," Blaine says, ignoring the sass. "But you were about five or six, weren't you? I mean, at five, I already knew that I wanted to be a musician, but I don't think I would have actually had the guts to go out on a Broadway stage in front of top-level producers and directors and showed them what I had."

Which wasn't very much at that point, if he's being honest. But from what he's heard, Rachel's parents (two doting fathers and her biological surrogate mom, also a musical theater prodigy in her youth, have been prepping Rachel to be a performer from the zygote stage, playing various genres of music against her mother's stomach, and acting out the works of Shakespeare well before she even showed.)

"Weren't you scared?" Blaine asks. "Being so young, going up there, knowing you were going to be judged, maybe even harshly?"

Rachel pulls back and makes a face, as if that's the most ludicrous question anyone could ever think to ask ever. But she sighs, her eyes drift up, and her face softens back to normal. Instead of the annoyingly precocious diva she usually is, she looks much more like a plain, ordinary twelve-year-old girl.

"Yes and no," she replies in an unfinished tone, as if she actually has a longer answer in mind.

"What do you mean?" Blaine asks, turning on his piano bench to give her his full attention in the hopes that she'll give it.

"I mean, yes, I was nervous. I always get nervous when I have to perform. There's a lot of things to think about – posture, breath control, diction, intonation, so much you have to juggle and do _perfectly_. But, also no because singing is what I do. It's inside of me, always has been. And when it comes down to it, I know that if you give me a stage and an audience" – Rachel shrugs – "there isn't anyone in the world who can do better than me. You don't get what you want by not taking risks. What you will get is the chance to watch somebody else do it while you sit in the audience."

Blaine nods. Of all the answers he expected Rachel to give, that definitely was not one of them.

But it was the best one.

"That's very wise," Blaine says. "And an important lesson to remember. Thank you for giving it. I think it's something I forgot."

Rachel smiles. "You're very welcome, Mr. Anderson," she says sweetly, but too quickly, the Rachel he knows snaps back into place. "Now, can we get back to practicing? I have to meet my vocal coach at three, and at this rate, I'll have to warm up all over again." And she taps on the piano again.

* * *

With the exception of his practice session with Rachel, Blaine's conversation with Kurt at _The Hot Shot_ that morning was the start of a day that progressively went downhill. Three blocks away from _The Hot Shot_ , he tripped on a raised lip in the sidewalk, and spilled his coffee down the front of his coat. He missed two trains, and his connection was late. He left his portfolio on the platform and had to go back a stop for it. After a lengthy argument with the security guard at Lost and Found over whether or not it belonged to him (even though it has his name embossed across the top left corner in gold letters - Blaine showed the man his driver's license, two credit cards, and his library card to prove it) Blaine chalked it up to karma biting him on the ass for the way he's treated Kurt. He definitely agreed that he deserved it.

He was about to call it a day and cancel his classes.

After his conversation with Rachel, he was glad he didn't.

On the train ride to his apartment, he stares out the window, watching his own reflection in the thick glass. It becomes cleared when the train enters a tunnel and the glass goes dark, and changes colors with the lights flashing by. He meditates on that and tries to make sense of his life. He knows why he did what he did – with Kurt and with The Fuck Machine. Blaine had gotten stuck in a rut, and he couldn't think of any other way to fix it. He didn't want to add another person to the mix, and make his problems their burden.

Plus, he was scared.

But knowing Kurt better now, the struggles and trials that he had to go through, Blaine can't imagine Kurt thinking of him as a burden. Dating Kurt would be like a meeting of lost souls, two halves of a similar tapestry knitting together.

Why the fuck didn't he just say _yes_?

Things can't stay this way, Blaine knows that. He thought it would be alright if he was only hurting himself. He didn't know that he was unintentionally hurting Kurt, too. It never dawned on him that there would be any residual effects, that anything would show. He has to stop, but he doesn't want to stop, and that frightens him.

He'd hate to believe that he's the kind of person who would jeopardize something real, something good, for a fantasy.

Blaine comes to understand these rational, logical arguments, and agrees with them wholeheartedly, but old habits die hard, especially when he gets off his train at the wrong stop and has to foot it the rest of the way home. A homeless guy yells at him for _walking through his front yard_ , and he gets chased a block-and-a-half by a stray dog. He wants to stare up at the sky and yell to the universe that he gets it, he did a bad thing, and he's had enough, but that's not how the universe works.

By the time he gets to his apartment, after the day he's had, he can't help himself. It's like he's not himself.

He doesn't know the person that he is.

One more time, he thinks. He'll indulge just one last time. He's already lost his chance with Kurt. What else does he have to lose? He might not ever go back to _The Hot Shot_ again. It wouldn't be worth hurting Kurt. He could keep this to himself, and Kurt can find someone else. Someone who deserves him. Someone who will treat him like a king.

Blaine opens his apartment door, and this time, without a conscious switch into this world he's created, it begins the moment he walks over the threshold.

Arms catch him and hold him.

Lips kiss him.

A voice in his ear tells him that everything's going to be alright.

Hands shove the coat off his shoulders and drop it to the floor. Fingers unbutton his shirt, peel it off his skin, then run up his neck and card through his hair. Those same phantom hands take his and lead him through the living room, into the bedroom. They shove him back on to the bed. Blaine laughs once, but another mouth covers his, swallowing his laugh while a body grinds against him. Blaine tries to roll over onto his dream man, but something keeps him pinned beneath his fantasy. His head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, he kicks off his shoes. His slacks tug off his legs, and his briefs roll down his hips. Blaine is so at one with his fantasy, he doesn't feel like he's moving at all. He's being moved, hands manipulating him, fingering him, stroking him, making him hard, enticing him with a heat that doesn't exist. He's gotten so good at fooling himself into believing Kurt's there, he isn't even touching himself. He gets this far, hard and panting and begging to cum, with his mind alone. He's conditioned himself for it, to feel Kurt's hands on his skin when it's his own fingers undoing the buttons to his shirt, Kurt's lips kissing him when it's his own mouth brushing along his arm. He's lying on his back, already so close, throbbing with an image of Kurt riding his cock, and he hasn't even touched that part of his body yet.

If he actually touches his machine, if he ever reaches for his fleshjack, if he does anything more than writhe on his bed and mimic the motions of fucking his forbidden fantasy, he consciously can't tell, and that's because none of that matters. Not anymore. The façade of love making, Kurt's voice in his head, Blaine's incredible orgasm – none of it.

It's what happens after he's done, after he's cried Kurt's name into the dark and cum over his abs, when the carefully plugged holes and filled cracks break open, bleeding out like water through a sieve.

"Oh my God!" Blaine gushes, smiling so wide that, for the moment, not a single shred of remorse can work its way through, though it's already there, hanging in the distance, waiting its turn. "That was…that was just…oh my God!" Blaine pants, scooting away from the machine he didn't touch, taking a second to mourn the loss of physical human contact that was a figment in his mind. "That was _amazing,_ Kurt! _Beyond_ amazing! I'm so glad we did that. I needed you so much. It's been such an awful day…such a horrible, awful day." Blaine's chest shudders when he stops for a breath. "I don't think I've told you how long it's been since I've been with anyone, that I've really…you know…connected with. I don't…I'm not sure that I actually have, to tell you the truth. Connected with someone…" Tears start in the corners of his eyes. "I know what I said when we first met, about not wanting a relationship, but at the time, I…I wasn't in the best place. I haven't been in the best place _emotionally_ for a long time. But the truth is, I wanted to say yes. I've wanted to say yes for so many times. But relationships are messy, and complicated, and my own have been just…just terrible." Blaine sniffles, and the first of many tears begins to fall. "And…I was so scared, Kurt. So scared that I was going to fuck things up, because I always seem to fuck things up, or things get fucked up around me. I…I don't want you to get to know me, the real me, and then start to hate me, because you're so wonderful. So amazing and wonderful and kind and selfless and…and I would be so lucky…so incredibly lucky if you would…"

Blaine turns his head on the pillow to finish his sentence, to look in Kurt's eyes when he asks him, but there's no one there. There was never anyone there. He has to face the reality that the arms around his torso are his own. They've always been his own, no matter what he let himself imagine.

He's using Kurt - Kurt's face in his mind, Kurt's voice in his ears, Kurt's gorgeous eyes looking at him with love and admiration, but none of it's real. Blaine had considered picturing someone else - a regular on his commute, the T.A. in his masters class, or a random porn star from the website he used to frequent, Frat Boy Physicals. But he can't bring himself to do it. It wouldn't be the same, wouldn't feel the same, wouldn't be as passionate or intense. And, in a weird, unnatural way, even considering it feels like he's cheating.

What the fuck is wrong with him!?

He's masturbating to an image of Kurt, a fantasy he's created using a living human being, and yet, he's so opposed to an actual relationship, he won't even take the man out for a cup of coffee.

Or…something else, considering Kurt probably gets his fill of coffee.

All this time he spent imagining he was with Kurt, all the money he spent on this machine and on attachments, all the times he rushed home for this experience - it was all time he could have spent wooing the one person who already wants him.

This isn't what he wants. He never expected this to turn out this way. He has the physical, but he always did. He didn't need this machine, or his fantasy, to get it necessarily.

What he wants is the emotional, which only comes from one-on-one interactions with real people.

No. That's therapist talk. Sounds too clinical and isn't exactly true.

He wants someone, but he doesn't just want _any_ someone.

He wants a particular someone.

He wants _Kurt_.


	6. Chapter 6

When Blaine gets up in the morning, he not only feels different, he _is_ different. Not everything about him is different, but enough for him to want to make some changes.

But most importantly, he's made the decision that he's ready for things to change.

No more hiding. No more coping. No more fantasies. Fuck the past, and his ex, and everything the man ever did to him. None of it was Blaine's fault. Blaine recognizes the fact that very real abuse is the reason why he did the things he did, why he lives his life the way he lives it. It's a _valid_ reason, and no one in the world would fault him for it, but he's not using it as an excuse anymore. It's time to look to the future – cut that album, start performing again, maybe even audition for a Broadway musical. He can call his agent (long time, no see) and finagle a reading for that musical Rachel's auditioning for. He could try out for the part of her dad (wouldn't that miff her off?). Why not? It could happen. He'll take baby steps if he needs to, but he'll get there some day.

Bottom line, he has to start looking towards the future.

From this day forward, he's going to start living his life.

But first, he needs get dressed and buy himself a cup of coffee.

* * *

"A double shot espresso, and a ham and cheese Panini…"

 _Step_.

"A steamed milk, two pumps hazelnut, one pump caramel…"

 _Step_.

"One soy latte with cinnamon sprinkles, and a caramel-apple Danish…"

 _Step_.

Blaine stands in line, feeling a bit sheepish but with his head held high, determined that this is going to be the day – the start of something new, the start of him getting what he wants, and not letting anything get in his way.

He needs to start with Kurt. He'll throw himself at Kurt's mercy, beg for his forgiveness, right here, in front of all these people, on his knees if he has to. He'll do his best to make Kurt see that it's worth giving him a second chance.

If Kurt doesn't agree, well, then, Blaine will be heartbroken. _Extremely_ heartbroken. But he won't let it lock him behind his apartment door again.

He won't _use_ Kurt to fill in holes that he needs to start filling himself.

"A hot dark chocolate with mocha whip and a dash of raw sugar…"

 _Step_.

"A steamed whole milk with a splash of sweet cream, a pistachio scone, and a banana nut muffin…"

 _Step_.

"A decaf black… _uh_ …( _sigh_ )…with a double shot of espresso and a jalapeno bagel…"

 _Step_.

Blaine winces when he hears that sigh. He caused that sigh. Even as Kurt moves on to the next customer, that sigh hangs heavy around Blaine's heart, but nothing in the world will make him leave without giving this a shot.

"Three almond cookies and a double decaf half-caff…"

 _Step_.

"Hey," Kurt says, greeting Blaine with a warm smile, a genuine smile, but not as bright as usual. Something has changed with Kurt, too…and it's Blaine's fault. "A medium drip for my favorite customer." Kurt pours the coffee, hurrying to get it capped and ready, then slides it across to Blaine. Blaine doesn't touch it. He looks down at it, then up at Kurt, and he waits. Kurt bobs his head, appearing mildly uncomfortable as he waits for Blaine to pay him, take his coffee, and leave. Blaine reaches in his pocket for his wallet, opens it up, and hands Kurt a five.

"$1.65 out of five," Kurt says, ringing up Blaine's order and getting his change. Kurt holds three ones and a few coins out to Blaine.

Blaine takes his change from Kurt, puts it in his wallet, shoves his wallet back in his pocket, and waits.

There they stand, waiting, an awkward silence growing between them and a line growing out behind them, but Blaine still waits.

"Uh…was there something else you wanted today, Blaine?" Kurt asks. He's polite – very polite, still so patient and polite, but it's not the same.

"You…uh…I noticed…you didn't ask me out," Blaine says.

Kurt raises an eyebrow, but he looks more tired than disbelieving. "Yeah, I'm sorry," Kurt says. "It's just…I think I'm starting to get the hint. You want to be left alone. You don't want a relationship. I respect that. I mean, I've only been trying for how many months?" Kurt laughs. "I appreciate you being nice about it and all, but I promise, I'm not going to bother you anymore."

"Oh," Blaine says, swallowing hard, hoping that he's not too late. "Well, maybe you could bother me…one more time?"

Kurt's eyes meet Blaine's and his brow furrows. Blaine finds it hard to read this particular expression, but there's something about it that seems wary, like he's trying to decide if this is a joke, or if Blaine is going to back out at the last minute. Kurt's wondering why the change?

Blaine took this for granted. Kurt isn't a fantasy. He isn't two-dimensional. He doesn't just immediately do what Blaine wants. He's a human being, who wants to find a connection with another human being, who doesn't want to get his feelings hurt, either.

"Okay," Kurt says, pinching his lower lip between his teeth, a smile slowly starting, "but before I decide if I want to, may I ask what changed?"

" _I_ did," Blaine says. "I thought things over, took a good long look at my life, and I finally realized what I really want."

"Really?" Kurt asks.

"Yes," Blaine says, bouncing eagerly on his heels.

"And what _do_ you want?" Kurt crosses his arms over his chest and taps his toe the same way Rachel did the day before, and Blaine smiles. Maybe Kurt has a touch of diva in him, too.

Blaine would love the chance to find out.

"Dozens of things," Blaine starts. "I want to stop being afraid of living my life and just live it. I want to stop spending hours thinking up excuses as to why I don't do things, and just do them. I want to try new things, meet new people…I want to risk falling in love, and getting my heart broken." Kurt's eyes dash away, but Blaine bends toward him, fighting to get them back. "And when I think about that last one in particular, I know that I want a man who's kind, and patient, and genuinely cares about other people. I want a man who sings like an angel, so I can be the harmony to his melody. I want a man who's not afraid to share his pain with me, who'd be willing to sit and listen while I share my pain with him. I want someone who likes some of the same books I do and some of the same music, so we can sit down and talk about everything we love, or maybe just sit down and not talk at all." Blaine turns his head to look behind him when he hears a throat clear, and sees about fifty faces staring back at him, but very few of them are angry. Most of them are silently staring, and Blaine knows he's running out of time. "You know, Kurt, I have about a hundred more things that I want in a person, but to be honest, they point to you."

Kurt looks down at his hands, the smile on his face nearly curling around his ears.

"You know what?" Blaine says, shaking his head. "Screw it all, Kurt! I'm not waiting. Would you like to go to…"

"Yes!" Kurt answers, before Blaine finishes asking the question, lifting his head with eyes shining.

"…dinner with me?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Kurt laughs, but Blaine can't really hear it, or his answer, as much as he'd like to, because from behind them on line, and at the tables all around, the 7:05 a.m. regulars in Kurt's coffee shop, the same ones who come to _The Hot Shot_ every day before they head off to work, who have had to endure months of these two dancing around one another, not seeing the same thing that everyone else could already see clear as day, are standing on their feet, clapping and cheering.

Blaine takes Kurt's hand in his, holding it for the first real time ever, feeling those callouses and his soft palm, so much better than any fantasy. He pulls Kurt toward him as he leans over the counter.

"I guess that was the right answer," Blaine says.

"Yeah," Kurt chuckles, glancing down at Blaine's hand holding his, then back into Blaine's eyes. "And I guess I wasn't the only one waiting for you to say it."


End file.
